


Loss Before Gain

by GingaNinjaHP



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Dark, Drug Rehab at Home, Eventual Happy Ending, Forced Drug Use, Friendship, Human Trafficking, Hurt John, M/M, Nasty Original Characters, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Drug Use, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Sherlock, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vengeful Holmes Brothers, Worried Sherlock, friends-to-lovers, papa lestrade, sherlock is human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 26,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingaNinjaHP/pseuds/GingaNinjaHP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John were working a human trafficking case when John is kidnapped by the traffickers. When Sherlock finds him, he's somewhat broken. Can Sherlock be the carer this time? And can they move past it to become what they were always meant to be? --- Make sure to read the tags and warnings!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

  **Chapter One**

* * *

 

 

It started with a case. A six on Sherlock's inexplicable scale and developing into an eight as the week progressed.

 

A human trafficking ring. International scale. Greg had asked John to pass on a missing persons death to Sherlock that, at first glance, had seemed to be death by misdemeanour, but had turned into something much more sinister.

 

So Sherlock decided it was worth his time - if for no other reason than to undermine Anderson's poor interpretation of the evidence.

 

It had taken four days to discover the involvement with human trafficking, and a further six to find their London base. A day after storming the base, finding men and women, alike, ready to be shipped off and the bastards behind it all, Sherlock and John had been jumped by a few of the groups lackeys.

 

John had been taken.

 

And that was how the doctor found himself chained to a bed, his mouth and head fuzzy from the drugs as a man in a suit sat in a chair next to him.

 

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

 

"Who are you?" John croaked, wincing as his head swam and panic rose at the way his words slurred. "How long have I been here?"

 

"It doesn't matter who I am, Doctor Watson." The man shot him a smug grin, and John committed his features to memory, hazy though it was: cropped dark hair, Mediterranean complexion, blue eyes, nose slightly too big for his face, large lips, South London accent and a star tattoo on his neck, just below his left jaw bone. "What matters is what happens to you after this." He leaned towards John and the doctor flinched a little, his depth-perception shot. "You and Mr. Holmes tried to destroy my little empire. I can't have that."

 

"Where's Sherlock?"

 

The man grimaced and leaned back again. "Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes escaped our grasp. Due in no small part to you, apparently. From what I understand, he's at Scotland Yard desperately trying to find a lead on your whereabouts."

 

"How long have I been here?" He asked again, subtly attempting to check his bonds, before deciding it was useless.

 

"Hmmm. A few hours. No more than a day or so. I apologise it's hard to keep track of the merchandise."

 

"Merchandise?"

 

"Yes." A malicious grin spread across the man's face. "Despite your age, it's been suggested that you could become a great commodity to my... franchise."

 

Horrific understanding dawned.

 

John had seen the injuries on the people he and Sherlock had liberated. He'd seen everything from the track marks on their arms to the clear evidence of sexual abuse - he'd treated some of the worst before the paramedics arrived. And they'd had to arrive in droves.

 

"And..." He swallowed as he felt bile rise in his throat. "And how would I do that, exactly?"

 

"Oh, Doctor Watson, I think you know, as well as I, how you'll do that."

 

The door two feet from John's bed opened and a hulking man entered with a tray. John flinched and tried to escaped his presence by sliding up the bed, but he just left the tray with the man who had greeted the doctor upon waking and left.

 

"These are the drugs will be using on you." He said.

 

"Wh-why are you telling me this."

 

He grinned, "Because you're a doctor. You know the effects these chemical will have on you and I'm almost certain that you will fear these more than what'll be happening to you in a few hours." John blanched. "Most of the time, we'll use heroin - it stimulates the same centres in the brain as sex would, giving a euphoric high. It also has a handy habit of making you pliable. The second drug that sometimes comes into play is Rohypnol. It has the same effect in making you agreeable and is cheaper than heroin. We tend to use this more if we have more merchandise than usual - you'd be surprised at our turnover rate."

 

John glared at him, trying to slow his breathing as he realised what was happening and that he had no choice but to wait for Sherlock to find him. Sadly, he realised, he could very well be too late to stop the first assault.

 

"The added bonus of heroin is its addiction rate - though I'm sure you know the statistics. At the dose we'll be giving you, and the frequency, you'll become addicted in little less than a week. You've already had your first dose, so we'll get started with the second."

 

John shook his head, tugging at his bonds. He felt adrenaline rushing through him, but the steel around his wrists wouldn't budge. He heard the door open again and kicked against someone restraining his feet. To his side, he saw the man prep a syringe with heroin and felt someone release one of his arms from a manacle. He swung at them in blind panic, hearing a muffled curse as a bone crunched. He would have felt an element of pride at having damaged one of his captors, but his arm was being strapped down as someone applied a tourniquet.

 

In the end, it felt like it was over in a flash. He felt the sting of the needle and watched as the man pressed the plunger. Then he was weightless with the drug.

 

They removed the tourniquet, returned him to his bound state and left.

 

John couldn't connect his thoughts. The dread wasn't gone, but it was almost as though someone had pressed the mute button, it only brushed at his consciousness. He felt... euphoric. Free.

 

His doctor-mind understood what was happening: increased dopamine levels flooding his system taking away his pain. The headache was gone and instead he rode a wave of almost pleasure. He briefly wondered if this was what Sherlock felt when he used cocaine before that thought, along with others, dissipated in the wake of the intense high.

 

It could have been minutes, or hours, or days, John didn't know, until someone entered the room. At first, he didn't understand what was happening. Then someone was removing his jeans and pants. He heard the sound of a zipper being undone and felt the weight of someone spread over him.

 

He was vaguely aware that he should be struggling, but his limbs felt heavy.

 

His legs were spread and the shadow moved over him as he heard them spit into their hand before breaching him.

 

He knew it should have hurt. That he should have felt something, but everything felt as though it were a dream. The shadow of the person violating him continued to move, but John was detached from what was happening. He couldn't feel it and he wondered if that was worse. Perhaps he could pretend it wasn't even real, that he'd wake up in some cold alley with Sherlock after roughhousing with those thugs.

 

 _Sherlock_ , he thought, feeling his eyes burn with frightened tears, _where are you?_

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

* * *

 

 

"Four days, Mycroft! John has been missing for _four days_. He must have been spotted by one of your cameras!" Sherlock paced in front of the fire place, running his hands through his hair as he felt the terror rise.

 

"I'm doing everything I can, Sherlock. I want him back at 221B as much as you do."

 

" _Don't_." He growled, glaring at his brother, "You can't possibly understand so don't you _dare_ pretend." Sherlock swallowed and cast his gaze to the evidence littering the walls. "I can't lose him. I just _can't_."

 

"I know, little brother." Mycroft murmured, also looking at the various map triangulations and photos above the sofa.

 

***

 

"Sherlock."

 

"What is it, Lestrade?"

 

"We might have a lead, but we need you to come in. It's Michael Woods the guy you and John took down last week, he won't talk to anyone but you." There was a pause at the other end of the line, "He's pretty adamant about it."

 

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

 

Hailing the cab was easy. The wait to get to the Yard was not. Patience and Sherlock had never been good companions, but after John had been taken by those Neanderthals, their already tenuous relationship was stretched paper-thin.

 

After days of no new leads, Sherlock could feel his body thrumming with anger and a small amount of relief - though he was almost certain said relief would be dashed by wild goose chases.

 

The consulting detective felt angry with himself and with John. How could he have sacrificed himself for a former addict? A sociopath? Of course he knew the answer. John loved him. _It's wrong that there are so many ways to say that in Greek and not enough in English_. It was there in his smiles and in the way he fetched the tea. Evident in the way he had said, ' _amazing_ ' where everyone else treated him with scorn and how he accepted the body part in the fridge - delegating them to the bottom shelf. It had been there when they were stood in that dank alleyway before those brutes ambushed them as John had stared up at him, hand on his arm and eyes flicking to his lips

 

Sherlock sighed and shook himself. Dwelling on John's poor self preservation would only serve to muddy his focus. He knew if John had been there he would have already lectured the detective on his ignorance of his transport, but there was no other way he could function with John gone. He was running on six hours sleep over a period of five days and had consumed little in the way of food - but his mind was sharp. That was what counted for the moment. Until John was safe.

 

The taxi stopped and Sherlock flung some notes at the driver before striding into the Yard.

 

"Where is he?"

 

"Sherlock, I need you to calm down, I know John--"

 

"You don't know anything, Lestrade." Sherlock growled. "Which room?"

 

The DI sighed and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. _Nervous, stressed, angry_ , Sherlock's mind supplied. "Seven. But Sherlock?"

 

"Mmm?"

 

"Try not to let him get to you."

 

He nodded. "You'll be the other side of the glass."

 

It wasn't a question, but Lestrade answered in the affirmative. "Donovan will be with you in the room." He held up a hand as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. "Whatever he has to say we have to do what we can to get it on record."

 

Sherlock pressed his lips together, but agreed. "We're wasting time."

 

***

Room seven was like all the others: drab magnolia walls, steel table in its centre, large two-way mirror and security cameras. The room's only occupant was clad in standard issue coveralls, his clothes would have been handed over to forensics when he was processed. He was handcuffed to the bar below the table.

 

Sherlock had been told by Donovan just before they had stepped into the room that Woods had deferred the right to a lawyer. Her voice had been softer while talking to him and he wasn't sure why. He didn't like not knowing, but he'd have to guess that everyone was feeling the terror for John at this stage of the game. After all, there was no way that anyone couldn't feel the loss of such a bright light in their lives.

 

Sherlock swept into the room, Donovan on his heels, and sat opposite Woods in one of the horrible plastic chairs.

 

Donovan stood with her feet shoulder-width apart an her arms crossed over her chest as she glared at Michael.

 

"You wanted to see me?" Sherlock began, raising his eyebrows. He had deduced this man the night he and John discovered what could only be described as a human-holding bay, but he had changed in his time in the Yard's cells. He was thinner, with dark circles under his eyes. On the surface he looked as though he'd given up, but his eyes told a different story. Here was a man determined to wreak havoc until his dying day.

 

"Indeed I did, Mr. Holmes." Woods leaned back in his chair, the cuffs clinking. "I might just have some information for you."

 

"Out with it." Sherlock growled, his patience already wearing thin. _John needs me_.

 

"Now, now." He smirked. "I can tell you where all the holdings are in this city." Donovan shifted behind Sherlock, and he knew Lestrade's face would be pressed against the glass in the observation room. "But first, don't you want to know what they're doing to your precious little blogger?"

 

"No. Tell me where they've taken him."

 

"Hmmm. I don't know exactly, but I can tell you that he'll be completely strung out. No idea where he is. Who's with him." Sherlock clenched his fists. "There are a total of ten... safe houses, if you will, in the London area. He could be at any one of them."

 

"Tell me their locations."

 

Woods smiled, eyes glinting with malice. He leaned forward, resting his palms flat on the cool steel table-top. "Even if you find him, Mr. Holmes, he's going to be broken. An addict." He grinned as Sherlock's lip curled into a snarl. Donovan shifted again, no doubt preparing herself to retrain the consulting detective. "He probably won't be able to follow you all 'round London. He'll be barely functional. Even the strongest of minds _break_ within a week of the regimen." He leaned back again. "You sure you still wanna find him?"

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, holding up his hand as Donovan stepped forward. "Despite popular belief, I don't care if John can't follow me around. I would follow him to the end of the Earth and back again, because we are a _team_. Now, unless you want your wife and daughters graphically exposed to what you've done," Donovan's sharp intake of breath was shadowed by Woods' face blanching dangerously, "I suggest you tell me, and quickly, where the houses are."

 

***

"Mycroft, I need your help."

 

"A lead?"

 

"Several. I need six teams, NSY will cover the other four."

 

"Consider it done, brother." Mycroft beckoned Anthea over to his desk and slid her a slip of paper with his instructions, she nodded with a frown and left to assemble the teams. "And Sherlock? We'll find him."

 

"We'd better."

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

* * *

 

 

John was cold. Was he cold? He was shivering. He could hear the chains rattling against the bed frame. Why was he shivering? God, he hurt down to his bones. His mouth was so dry.

 

The door opened. He wanted to move away, but couldn't find the energy, his body didn't want to cooperate. He couldn't remember why he should move away.

 

"Shhh." A gentle voice and looming figure, "Shh. Just come to top you up."

 

"Where's Sherlock?" Was that his voice? That croaking pathetic thing?

 

"He's not here." A pinch in his arm made him cringe.

 

"How long...?"

 

"A week."

 

Then John was warm and flying.

 

***

 

"Sherlock." Lestrade hissed, grabbing his arm. "Sherlock, listen to me!"

 

" _What_?"

 

"I know you want to find John, we all do, but you need to listen to me here. You _cannot_ go into these places all guns blazing. We don't know how many people are in there - suspects or victims alike. If John is in this one, he's... he's probably not himself and I need you to slow down for a second and prepare yourself."

 

"When have you ever known me to be unprepared, Lestrade? I have thought of every possible outcome."

 

"No, you haven't."

 

"Lestrade..."

 

"No." The DI grabbed his lapel and pulled him down to glare into his eyes. "Sherlock, you have _no_ idea how John might react." He sighed and released the consulting detective, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at their shoes. "The last time I found you strung out, you weren't yourself. It was so hard to see you like that and, to this day, I can't get that night out of my head. You need to be prepared for this, Sherlock, otherwise you're going to be no use to John."

 

Sherlock frowned down at him. What could he possibly mean? John was his constant. He'd never change. He nodded anyway, if nothing else then to placate the DI.

 

"Good." The DI nodded and stepped back to grab a stab vest. "Put this on and then we'll go see if we can find your blogger."

 

***

The figure loomed. Pressure. Some pain. But it didn't really reach him. He felt warm, hot, feverish and his skin itched.

 

The figure grunted rhythmically and sweat dropped onto John's face. Somewhere in the haze of his mind, he knew what was happening, understood it, but he couldn't process it. He tried to move away, but his limbs were too heavy.

 

There was a sob in his chest, but it couldn't move through the drug haze.

 

That was the worst thing, John thought. His mind wasn't his own. How Sherlock had thought that addiction was the way to sharpen his already bright mind, John would never understand. It was like trying to catch smoke with his hands. Wisps of his consciousness just drifted without an anchor.

 

 _Sherlock_.

 

***

"Alright. Team one through the back and team two with me." Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "Sherlock, I want you with me. Sweep the building and subdue any suspects. _If_ you come across John Watson," he held up a photograph of the doctor, "tell your position to Sherlock immediately. Do _not_ approach him. We don't know what state of mind he'll be in." He sighed, "Remember that this man is a soldier with confirmed PTSD, there is no way to predict how he will react to us." He glanced at the consulting detective again. "He has been missing for nine days, in that time he has likely suffered a severe amount of trauma including forced drug abuse. The only person he _might_ recognise is Sherlock."

 

Sherlock nodded, fixing his eyes on the converted warehouse in front of him. He wished he could feel the thrill of the chase, the final adrenaline rush leading to the comprehending of a criminal, but the only thing buzzing under his skin was the need to find John and find him quickly.

 

Part of him ached with the knowledge that John could well be out of his mind enough that he may not even recognise Sherlock. All the data he had gathered from the victims they had liberated almost two weeks ago rushed through his mind. He knew they were using heroin - highly addictive - to subdue their victims and _what_ the victims were being subdued _for_. He had seen the primal restrains, the bruises, the track marks. The blood. Sherlock's heart clenched and he rubbed his chest absently, feeling the rough texture of the stab vest over his shirt and under his coat.

 

He remembered the night that Lestrade had found him - that night was a black mark on his otherwise incredible memory. It wasn't that he couldn't remember what had happened, per se, it was just... hazy. Fuzzy in a way he hadn't experienced before or since. He hated it. And worse he remembered not fully recognising Lestrade. He recalled viciously lashing out and he was terrified that John would react in the same way, that he wouldn't distinguish the difference between Sherlock and... and the people who had hurt him.

 

He clenched his hands and closed his eyes. _To battle_. _To John_.

 

"Let's move." Lestrade hissed. The armed teams assembled themselves and Sherlock followed Lestrade closely. "Don't you dare get yourself killed, Sherlock. John needs you."

 

"I know."

 

***

He was going to be sick. His head was starting to hurt and he was going to be sick. God, he hurt. Everything _hurt_. And worse, he was becoming more and more coherent to what was happening and _still_ he couldn't fucking  _move_. The panic was suffocating him, overwhelming him with the knowledge that he had to get away, get back, go home.

 

"St'p."

 

The figure kept moving, kept driving the pain higher. Deeper. This was worse than the bullet wound. Worse that the infection that followed it. It was all-encompassing in a way he had never before experienced. Like his bloodstream had been suffused with caustic fluid and his bones with lead.

 

His conscious mind was returning in increments and it was torture. _Get away_. He could feel everything that was being forced upon him. _Run_. His limbs were still too heavy. _Make it stop!_ He cried out but he was shocked at how weak his voice sounded. Faded. The violation never ceased.

 

BANG!

 

John flinched, his extremities suddenly awakening as the door burst inwards.

 

" _Get away from him_!"

 

Humiliation, grief. His vision was still hazy but he'd know that voice anywhere. The weight above him, inside him, left abruptly, shoved off to the side, leaving John gasping in pain and relief.

 

Gentle hands tugged at his bindings, before two soft _clicks_ allowed John's arms to drop.

 

"John? _John_?"

 

"Sherlock." His voice cracked on a sob and his chin wobbled threateningly. He tried to move his arms around the consulting detective's neck but could only weakly grasp at his lapel. "You came. You found me."

 

"Of course I did, John." One of Sherlock' hands covered one of John's on his coat while the other gently brushed his sweaty, dirty hair back from his forehead. "I'll always find you. Can you sit up for me?"

 

"I don't know." He looked down at himself. His legs were spread obscenely and he felt a pang of anger at not being able to properly move yet. Worse, he felt bile rise at the sight of pink, red and rusty stains on the mattress. "I hurt." He whispered.

 

"I know." Sherlock quickly shed his coat, putting it on the bed, and moved to help John. "I need to see if you can stand."

 

Gently, oh-so-gently, he urged John to sit with his legs dangling off the bed, stopping every time he flinched or groaned. He wrapped his coat around the smaller man and John was so grateful for it as the shivers began again.

 

"They drugged me." He hissed, head spinning at the vertigo sensation of moving upright. He swayed and winced.

 

"I know." Sherlock's face looked funny, but for the life of him, John couldn't figure out why.

 

"I feel like I'm going to--" John swallowed, blinking quickly to remove the black dots in his vision.

 

He was lifted bodily and quite abruptly by Sherlock and held close to his chest. Suddenly he felt so very small and so very safe that the feeling overwhelmed him and he sobbed.

 

"S'rry," he murmured, "I just--"

 

"It's alright, John." He was given a soft squeeze and he felt tears slip down his cheeks.

 

"What happened to--?" His tongue felt funny, too big for his mouth.

 

"Dealt with." Was the abrupt and angry reply. "Lestrade!" He called over his shoulder. "I have John." He turned to look at the doctor. "You're safe."

 

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

* * *

 

When Lestrade entered the room, nothing could have prepared him for the scene in front of him. John was curled into Sherlock's protective embrace, wrapped in the Belstaff and shivering. The copper smell in the air worried the DI and a glance towards the bed made him grimace. There was a heavy stench of excrement and unwashed bodies and in the corner an unconscious man - no doubt the work of Sherlock.

 

He approached the duo slowly, swallowing hard as he heard their quiet conversation.

 

"I'll get your c-coat dirty." John whimpered, even as he shrunk further into Sherlock's arms.

 

"Don't care."

 

"But... It's your favourite coat." Lestrade's heart broke to hear John sounding so small, so vulnerable.

 

"It's fine, John."

 

The DI cleared his throat softly, chest tightening to see John flinch so violently. He looked to Sherlock and clenched his fists at the consulting detective's lost eyes. He knew Sherlock was struggling with the data assaulting him, the knowledge, the visual confirmation of what John had been subjected to and was slowly shattering inside. John was staring up at Sherlock as though he were the Sun around which he orbited. Lestrade supposed that was the truth in its own way.

 

"The paramedics are on their way." He murmured. "You'll go with him to the hospital, Sherlock."

 

"Obviously." He responded softly, thumb brushing John's shoulder as he pressed his face into John's hair.

 

"We'll sort the rest out here." He made to leave, but he was stopped by John quietly calling out.

 

"Wait." _God_ , his voice. "There's a man. The one in charge." He paused as a shudder ripped through him, the shivers getting worse. "He was here when I woke up. Medium build, but tall. He had cropped dark hair and Mediterranean complexion, really blue eyes. South London accent and large lips and nose - too big for his face." He frowned as he struggled to recall something that he'd found truly important at the time. "There was a tattoo on his neck below his left jaw bone. It was a star. Like... like the outline."

 

He watched as Sherlock gave a grim smile.

 

"He's in the van, John." Lestrade said gently. "We've got him."

 

The doctor nodded and closed his eyes. "Good."

 

Sherlock held John a little more tightly for moment. "Well done, John." He whispered.

 

The two of them against the world. Always. Lestrade knew better than to ever think that their relationship wouldn't come out of this unscathed, but his instincts told him that they might just come out of it stronger. The trust between them was implicit in a way the DI envied.

 

The moment was broken as the paramedics entered the room.

 

"We hear there's a victim in need of urgent attention."

 

"Yes." Sherlock said and Lestrade moved aside so that he could place the doctor on the trolley. "Dehydrated. Malnourished." The DI watched on as Sherlock swallowed and grasped John's hand tightly, "Suffering heroin withdrawal and a victim of sexual assault."

 

The paramedics nodded gravely and Lestrade watched the group leave, Sherlock in tow as he spoke gently to John, reminding him that he was safe and reassuring the doctor that he was there.

 

***

 

"Sherlock?"

 

He was in a bright room now. Too bright. It made his eyes throb. There was a hand holding his.

 

"I'm here, John."

 

"Hey."

 

"How're you feeling?"

 

"Sore. Thirsty." He rasped, "How long have I been out?"

 

Sherlock poured a glass of water and put a straw in the cup, gently helping John to lean forward to take a drink.

 

"Eighteen hours. What's the last thing you remember?"

 

John leaned back again. "Thanks." He whispered, looking off to the side. "I remember you finding me. Greg. The ambulance ride is a bit blurry."

 

"You were in and out of it."

 

John nodded. "I remember arriving. The... the rape kit. After that..." The doctor shrugged.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and he slipped his hand back into John's, squeezing gently. "You had an anxiety attack mid-way through. They had to sedate you." Sherlock dropped his head to the back of John's hand. "I tried to stop them, but you were too far gone."

 

"It's ok, Sherlock. I was a danger to others, and probably myself. They did the right thing." John placed his other hand on the back of Sherlock's head, wincing as various pains flared to life.

 

"I know. It just... doesn't make it easier." Sherlock raised his head and for the first time since the abduction, the doctor could fully focus on him.

 

"What happened to your face?"

 

Sherlock smiled sadly, "That... The guy in the room. He got in a good couple of punches before I could subdue him."

 

"Ah."

 

"Yeah."

 

For a few moments they sat in heavy silence staring at one another. John was quietly mourning the loss of a kiss in the alley that might never happen as that suddenly seemed so, _so_ important. Sherlock, that John may never be the same.

 

He'd seen the injuries inflicted on the ex-soldier. He'd witnessed the panic attack in which John had gone almost feral. Abruptly he understood why his brother and Lestrade were always so worried about him. His behaviour was unstable at the best of times so he could only imagine how he'd been under the influence of cocaine or whilst in withdrawal. Of course John had also suffered a severe amount of physical, and no doubt emotional, trauma.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Yes, John?"

 

"Am I on morphine?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I need to not be on morphine. I was on heroin at... in there."

 

"I know. We'll talk to the doctor when she comes. See if she can find an alternative."

 

"I don't want to go to rehab." He whispered, suddenly feeling small again. "I don't think I could stand it. Oh _god_!"

 

"What?"

 

"Detoxing could take weeks."

 

"Alright."

 

"Alright? Sherlock, I'll need near constant supervision for two weeks."

 

"That's fine."

 

"Sherlock..."

 

"No, John. We're not going to argue about this. I'll be with you."

 

"You'll get bored."

 

"Unlikely."

 

John stared at him for a moment, seeming to weigh his words and Sherlock stared right back, willing John to understand. The doctor's face grew more confused and Sherlock realised that John's cognitive abilities were currently compromised.

 

"John, you..." He tightened his grip on John's hand a rubbed his thumb over its back as he stared down at their fingers. "You are one of the most important people in my life. It's my fault, what happened to you." He shushed John as he opened his mouth to protest. "It is. But that's not why I need to be with you as we work through this." He took a deep breath and met John's gaze. "I need to be with you because you're my friend and I care about you."

 

"I thought caring wasn't an advantage?" John murmured, his eyes oddly shiny and his voice unsteady.

 

"I can tell you right now, that it doesn't feel like an advantage - but not for the reasons you might think. You've been hurt. Badly. There's no two ways about it and we're looking at a long recovery."

 

"How long?"

 

"Physically? Six weeks to three months, depending on healing time and rehabilitation. Mentally? I don't know." Sherlock looked back at their hands. "The point is, John, it doesn't feel like an advantage to care, because when the ones you care about are hurt beyond measure, there's no way to comfort yourself with data. Besides," he huffed a weak laugh and rested his forehead to john's hand again, "it's you and me against the world, right?"

 

John's hand carded into his hair, and he preened a little under the attention.

 

"Right. Like always." Sherlock looked up to see a smile on John's lips. Although it as a little sad, it was so quintessentially John that Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.

 

"Indeed."


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

* * *

 

 

Doctor Marques, a kindly man with a gentle disposition and enormous amount of patience, had told John two days ago that they would not be able to substitute the morphine with anything but an opioid drug so he would still be suffering the side effects. He had tried to argue, but once the extent of his injuries had been thoroughly and sickeningly revealed to him, he understood that, with the opiate withdrawal looming, there was a distinct possibility his body would go into shock.

 

He was required to stay in the hospital for a further two weeks under observation and in that time, they would be periodically lowering the morphine dose. He was grateful to not have the option of self medication - he wasn't sure whether he would have it at a constant high or turn it low out of sheer stubbornness.

 

He was in a relatively spacious, private room, no doubt courtesy of the British Government, an a bed had been wheeled in for Sherlock's use as he had yet to move from John's side for anything but a sneaky cigarette and the morning papers. Said morning papers were spread across John's legs as he struggled to read the piece on the human trafficking ring.

 

"Says here that some of the victims had been shipped as far as Russia." He murmured, surprised as Sherlock tensed. "God, those poor people."

 

"Hmm."

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"I'm bored." He said, trying to lighten the mood a little, grinning as Sherlock smirked at him.

 

"I'm sure you are, John." He reached for The Independent. "Unfortunately, we still have another twelve days of this, so we'll have to make do."

 

John groaned and rolled his head back, "Oh, _God_. Can't I have a book or something? Actually no, that'd be no good - you'd only tell me how it ends."

 

"Obviously."

 

"Visitors?"

 

"Not for another few days."

 

"Hmph."

 

"Indeed. Lestrade's been hounding me about when he can come and see you."

 

"Really? Why?"

 

"He's your friend, John. I assume he's worried."

 

"He'll be worried about you too, Sherlock."

 

"Me? Why would he be worried about me?" He looked up at John, the wrinkle above his nose appearing in the way it did when he didn't understand something and a wave of affection for this brilliant, impossible man swept through the doctor.

 

"Despite the fact that what happened, happened to me," he cleared his throat and shook his head, trying to clear the panic that had risen from time to time during his hospital stay, "it's clearly affecting you negatively as well, and although you're always ridiculing him for his poor observation skills, he's known you for a long time. He'll see what this is doing to you."

 

"It's not doing anything to me." He protested.

 

"It is, Sherlock. You're just not able to see it. Greg does." John sighed and pressed his hand over Sherlock's, "Talk to him. Tomorrow. I want you out of this depressing place for one day."

 

"John..."

 

"Nope. We're not having an argument. I want you out, I want to read a book without you ruining the ending for me. And most importantly, you stink. Go home and have a shower, for God's sake."

 

Sherlock smiled sadly, "Alright, but you're no rose yourself."

 

"I'm currently unable to move all that far, I have an excuse. Can you pick up some socks for me, too? My feet get a touch too cold."

 

"Alright. _Fine_."

 

"Good." John pulled back his hand, "Now. Any good murders this week?"

 

***

 

When Sherlock had texted to tell him that John had banished him from his hospital room for the day and to meet him at a coffee shop down the road from Barts, Lestrade feared the worst. However, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that Sherlock - clearly freshly washed - appeared the same, if a little thin and worn around the edges.

 

"Hey, mate."

 

"Hello, Lestrade."

 

The waitress approached and they gave her their orders, before she scurried away again.

 

"So, how's John?"

 

The facade cracked a little as Sherlock rubbed a frustrated hand over his face.

 

"I'm not totally certain." He sighed and glared at the ceiling. "He's... still John. He actually urged me to come and see you, something about 'how this effects me too'."

 

"Well, that's good, right?" The waitress reappeared and Greg quietly thanked her as he wrapped his hand around the mug of coffee. "And for the record, he's right about getting you to talk to someone."

 

Sherlock smiled, "I'm beginning to see that." He took a sip of his tea and grimaced. "God, this stuff is awful. John's is better."

 

"I won't even try to argue with that."

 

"Hmm."

 

"So... John?" He prompted.

 

"He's healing well, according to Dr. Marques, there's been no complications so far, but I suppose there's plenty of time for it to go wrong." He shrugged, "Mentally he seems ok, but..." He trailed off and stared at his beverage.

 

"But?"

 

"Haaah. I don't think he's processed what happened to him."

 

"What d'you mean?" Greg leaned forward and Sherlock hung his head before meeting his gaze.

 

"When we arrived at the hospital he consented to a rape kit, but halfway through he went into a full blown panic attack - even just after he moved in and was still having PTSD episodes I've never seen him like that." Sherlock growled and roughly tugged at his hair. "He's not broached it since. I think he's in denial about it."

 

The DI leaned back in his chair and shrugged, "Probably."

 

"What?"

 

"Yes. He's probably in denial about it. I agree." He held up a hand as Sherlock opened his mouth to argue. "Look. This is something he has to work through on his own - at his own pace - and at the moment, the most important thing for him to be doing is recovering physically. If he hasn't started trying to deal with it once he's healed, and once he's fully rehabilitated, then we can worry, ok?"

 

"But he shouldn't have to go through this alone. It's my fault he was... what happened... it's my fault."

 

"Huh."

 

"What?"

 

"Look at you, Sherlock."

 

" _What_?"

 

"I just never imagined you like this."

 

"Like what?" His brow creased.

 

" _This_. Really caring about someone else." Greg leaned forward a little, looking around conspicuously. "John really means something, huh?"

 

"Of course. He's my... he's my friend."

 

"Hmm. There's more to it than that."

 

"What could you possibly mean by that? We're friends."

 

"I'm not denying that." The DI shrugged. "It's always been 'more than just friends' between the two of you. You'd have to be blind not to see it. The cabbie for example." He grinned as Sherlock's face became carefully blank. "You know, despite what you say, I'm not totally clueless. I know it was John that night but... well, I could see how important he already was to you then, Sherlock. For you to lie to me--"

 

"I'm always telling you lies."

 

"No." Sherlock met his eyes, looking oddly vulnerable. "You omit things or just don't tell me outright. That night you belied the facts you'd laid down for me - and that's something you had never done before. Not once. John is someone _you_ deem worthy of denying your deductions for, and _that_... that's something really special mate."

 

Sherlock looked down into his mug and nodded, neither confirming or denying what Greg was saying.

 

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Sherlock, God knows I wouldn't get away with it if I tried, the next few months are going to be really hard on both of you. If you ever need to talk - about _anything_ \- you have my number and know where I am. You're unlikely to go to your brother, but it's _so_ important that you have someone you trust to help you. You trust me, right?" Sherlock nodded and glanced at him, "Good. I know you don't really want to be here 'playing catch-up' with me when you feel you have more important people to attend to, and that's fine, whenever you're ready, mate." He stood, draining the rest of his coffee and gripped Sherlock's shoulder, "In the mean time, you need to understand it's not your fault. It's really not, and I know that John doesn't blame you. You need to start believing that." He sighed and gave the consulting detective shoulder a comforting squeeze, "You also need to start coming to terms with what John's gone through, yourself. It's hit you really hard, even I can see that." He withdrew his hand and glanced at his watch. "I've got to go to work, I'll drop some cold case files at the hospital later, hopefully they'll keep the two of you occupied for a couple of days. Text me if you need to talk, I'll make the time, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock nodded and gave him a sad smile which Greg returned before making his way back to his car.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

* * *

 

 

Over the next few days, John's life consisted of test after test. It was part of the reason he had endeavoured to ensure Sherlock was kept occupied, but it rarely worked.

 

"What's this blood test for?"

 

John rolled his eyes as he turned his attention to the consulting detective. "It's another HIV test."

 

"Another...? What do you mean _another_?"

 

John sighed and smiled at the nurse as she tied the tourniquet. "I had one the day you went to meet Greg. This is a follow up test to see whether the results have changed, it'll be something I'll have to keep doing for three to six months."

 

"What?"

 

"Come on, Sherlock." He flinched as the needle entered his arm. "When you went through rehab, you must have had the HIV blood-draw?"

 

"There wasn't any need to."

 

"Sherlock."

 

"There wasn't any need to."

 

"Hmm." John wasn't convinced but he pressed on, "The point is, I need a series of tests done, and I may need treatment for various STIs but the hope is, none of them will be the 'scary' ones. I have to have these tests done just to make sure."

 

"STIs?"

 

"Oh my God, Sherlock. For a genius you're pretty clueless." The nurse excused herself with three vials of John's blood on a metal tray. "Sexually transmitted diseases." Sherlock's already pale face got significantly paler. "Yeah. I need to have these tests done because of what happened. There's also a high possibility that the needle they were using weren't clean."

 

"Right." Sherlock looked down at his hands clasped in his lap and Johns heart clenched to see him looking so out of his depth. He reached out and put his hand over the detective's.

 

"Look, it's nothing to worry about, alright? It's just procedure at this point, ok?" Sherlock nodded hesitantly. "Good. Now listen I have an exam of... well, I'll need you to go see Molly or something."

 

"What? Exam?" The detective looked up and grabbed John's hand before he could withdraw it.

 

"Yeah. Uhm." He nodded significantly to his lower half and Sherlock's eyes darkened with anger. It wasn't until he spoke that John understood the anger wasn't directed at him.

 

"Are you _sure_ you don't want me here?"

 

"What d'you mean?" John frowned.

 

"It's just... you've been through something so traumatic and I saw how you... I _saw_ , alright? I just want you to know I'll stay - no matter how uncomfortable you think it might make me. If that's... if that's what you want."

 

John raised his eyebrows at him. "Really? You'd stay?"

 

" _Yes_ , John. Christ. Of course."

 

"Why?" He voice cracked vulnerably and he cleared his throat, withdrawing his hand. Sherlock's face took on an odd expression and he came to sit on the bed.

 

"You're important to me, John, and I don't want you to go through any stage of this alone." He placed a gentle hand on John's knee. "It's... it's difficult for me. This. Sentiment. But I _know_ , irrefutably, that I want to be here for you."

 

"Alright."

 

"Alright?" Sherlock looked up at him, into those fathomless blue eyes filled with warmth.

 

"Alright." John nodded and placed his hand over Sherlock's. "Stay. Just promise you won't freak out."

 

He frowned. "Why would I do that?"

 

John gave his best you're-such-an-idiot-for-such-a-genius look, both eyebrows raised. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I know you're blaming yourself for what happened - don't deny it - but don't." His voice softened. "It wasn't - _isn't_ your fault. But the truth of it is that it's... it's a _mess_ down there." His face tinged pink even as his eyes filled with mild fear and panic and a frown drew over his features. "I'd be comfortable with you up here for facing away. I'm not... I'm not ready for you to see me."

 

Sherlock smiled sadly and grasped John's cold hand in his. "That's fine, John. It's all fine."

 

Both understood it wasn't, that there was a long road ahead of them, but they were both willing to put that aside for this single moment and suddenly Sherlock thought of something that perhaps wouldn't completely heal them individually, the hurt and desperate denial and guilt on both sides, but that would, maybe, take a little of the raw sting away.

 

"John." He whispered, speaking too loud, he thought, may just ruin the spell.

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Can I..." He swallowed and his eyes dropped to John's mouth. "May I kiss you?"

 

It had have been the longest second of Sherlock's life. The way John's eyes widened and searched his, dropping to gaze at the detective's mouth and his face turning pink. He licked his lips.

 

"Yes." He whispered hoarsely. "God, yes."

 

Gently, Sherlock grasped John's nape and tilted his head to one side. He leaned in, eyes on John's lips until the last moment where he stopped a hair-breadth away and glanced into the doctor's eyes, giving John the last bit of control. With a frustrated sound, the sandy-blond slammed his mouth to Sherlock's, conveying everything and nothing. He sighed into Sherlock's mouth and slipped his tongue along the seam of his lips. Sherlock relented with a groan, his other hand sliding up John's arm to cup his strong jaw. He rubbed a gentle thumb there, relishing the moan that caught in John's throat.

 

The moment was broken as John made to reach up and card his fingers into Sherlock's hair and pulled on the IV. He pulled away with a hiss.

 

"Sorry." He muttered, examining the needle and reassuring himself that he hadn't done any damage.

 

"It's fine." Sherlock murmured back and rested his forehead against the doctor's with a smile.

 

"For the record, we can totally keep doing that."

 

"I thought you weren't gay...?"

 

"And I thought you were married to the Work...?" John giggled, leaning back and breaking the contacts with a grimace. "God, I hurt."

 

"It the effects of lowered morphine, your--"

 

"My pain receptors are more active, I know."

 

Sherlock smiled, returning to his chair and grasping John's hand again, "I know."

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

 

The day after John's full exam, Sherlock sat in the café around the corner, his hands trembling a little around his mug. It was like Baskerville all over again. Worse. He knew his eyes weren't deceiving him this time. Knew that John's injuries were real. Indisputable.

 

After John had fallen asleep, he had quietly excuse himself from the private suite and called Lestrade. He needed to talk and after a hushed, if slightly grouchy, conversation - _It's three AM, Sherlock_ \- Lestrade had told him to meet him at the café.

 

"Sherlock."

 

"Lestrade." He took in the silver-haired DI. Tired, beginnings of a cold, missed a patch shaving and nicked his chin. Clearly rushed to get to the café. Sherlock pushed a mug of black coffee toward him. "Coffee's here. You're early."

 

"So are you." The DI sat and took a grateful sip of the dark liquid. Before staring at Sherlock with something like sadness around the eyes. "Figured it'd be something important for you to call, rather than send a text." Sherlock nodded and Greg's mouth turned down a little. "How's John?"

 

"Doing really well. Healing's good, he's not had any more panic attacks." He paused and looked down at his drink. "He's still not talked about what happened to him, but I _think_ that's normal. We... uhm..." He glanced at the DI with an oddly frightened look, "We kissed, yesterday."

 

" _Really_?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Ok..." Lestrade took a deep breath. "Ok. Good. Right. So...?"

 

"So?"

 

" _So_... are you two... I dunno... dating?"

 

Sherlock paled, "I didn't ask. Should I have?"

 

"Woah. Calm down. How did it happen? What did John do?"

 

"I asked if I could kiss him and he said yes--"

 

"Wait." Greg held his hand up, "You _asked_ him?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Ok. Right. Good. Good man."

 

"What?"

 

"Was it something you thought about before you asked him?"

 

"Do you mean before... _before_ , or imminently before?"

 

" _Just_ before."

 

"No. It just seemed right to ask."

 

"Alright." The DI took another sip of his drink, watching Sherlock as though he'd never seen him before. Sherlock gave him a confused look, but continued when Greg motioned for him to do so.

 

"Then I kissed him. And he kissed me back." Sherlock smiled as he recalled how John had slammed his mouth to his. "Then he pulled the IV reaching for me."

 

"And that was it?"

 

"Yes." He drank some of his tea, grimacing at the taste. "Wait, no. He told me we could keep doing it. Kissing, I mean."

 

Greg was silent for a few moments, absorbing the information. Then he leaned forward. "Do you _want_ to date him?"

 

"I think so. I mean, I don't want to be with anyone but John."

 

"Alright." Greg leaned back and smirked.

 

"What?"

 

"I'm pretty sure you're dating - John doesn't do things by half measures, but ask him when you get back to see if that's what he wants." Sherlock nodded. "Now. Do you wanna talk about what you really wanted to see me for?"

 

The look he threw in Greg's direction was vulnerable. Hi hands shook minutely and he sighed. "I was in for John's full exam."

 

"Ah."

 

"Yeah. I..." His face contorted towards something near crying and Greg put a hand on his arm, giving a comforting squeeze that Sherlock drew strength from. "He told me not to look, but how am I supposed to do that? _Me_? I take in everything."

 

"Does he know you looked?"

 

Sherlock shook his head. "I didn't let him see it. He shook the whole way through the exam and stared at the ceiling. God." He held his head in his hands. "In the years I've been consulting, I've never felt this... this helpless. There's nothing I can do to ease it for him and it feels like I'm being crushed under the weight of it. The injuries... they're barbaric." He rubbed harshly at his eyes and glanced at Greg. "Every time I close my eyes, all I can picture are the things that happened to him in that room."

 

Lestrade quietly stared at him before reaching across to grip him arm again. "I know it's hard, but don't do that to yourself. It's a dangerous road." He leaned back and sighed at Sherlock's broken expression. "You're doing everything right. Asking him whether you could kiss him was a good move. You're supporting him in a way I doubt he's ever been and most importantly you're there for him. I'm assuming you haven't got bored yet?" At Sherlock's affronted look, Greg grinned. "Ok, ok. So, not bored." The lanky detective shook his head, frowning. "That's good. You've always had trouble with things, or people, keeping your attention for long, but I guess John's always been the exception." Hesitantly, Sherlock nodded, "Exactly. He's the exception to every rule. He'll get through this, and so will you. It'll get easier as he heals, I promise. The physical scars will fade and all that will be left are the emotional ones. They're hard, but they get easier to deal with."

 

"But... I just feel so _helpless_." Sherlock hissed.

 

"And that's normal. John probably feels the same, not least because he can probably see what this is doing to _you_. I know this is hard and that you feel responsible, but it isn't your fault. None of what happened to him is your fault. Or his. It's down to those bastards, and for what it's worth they won't be seeing the light of day for a _long_ time." Sherlock's features darkened but he nodded. "Just... be careful moving forward. Baby steps."

 

"I plan to. I don't want..." He frowned. "It's not something either of us should rush. Baby steps." He agreed with a nod.

 

"Good." Greg swirled his drink, "Do you know when he'll be ready for visitors?"

 

Sherlock sighed, "The doctor has said he'll be good from tomorrow, but I don't know how John feels about it." He shrugged, "He's bored enough to see people, but he's a proud man and I don't know if he'd be comfortable with people offering condolences or whatever."

 

"Hmm, I know what you mean, but John's also really sociable. I'm sure he'd be fine as long as people avoid the standard 'I'm sorry for what happened' malarkey." Greg smiled, "I'll pop in tomorrow evening if that's alright? It'll be good to see him with my own eyes. I can't get the night we found him out of my head."

 

"Yeah. I know that feeling." He drained his drink and stood, "I'll let John know you'll pop 'round tomorrow, but I've got to get back. He gets some lab-rushed test results back today."

 

"And if you're not there he may not tell you the results?"

 

"No, of course he'd tell me, but..."

 

Greg nodded and smirked, "But you need to be there."

 

"Obviously."

 

"Alright." Greg gulped what was left of his coffee and stood, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder as they walked out the door, "I'll see you both tomorrow."

 

"Yes. And thanks for this Greg. Seriously. Thank you."

 

Greg smiled, not mentioning Sherlock's remembrance of his name. "Anytime, mate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update may be a touch later than usual - I have a couple of assignments to attend to over the next couple of weeks. But thank you all for the lovely comments.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

 

 

John was alone in the spacious private room when Greg arrived the following evening. He was sat up as far as the hospital bed would allow and there was a book in his lap. The DI tapped on the door and John looked up at him, a smile blooming across his face as he placed the book on the side table.

 

"Greg!"

 

"Hey mate." Greg smiled back making his way to the side of the bed.

 

"What, no flowers?"

 

"I wouldn't dare, Captain." He laughed, "But I wasn't sure what you could eat, so once I know that, I'll bring armful of the stuff. How're you feeling?"

 

"Urg. Sore." He shifted. "Bored."

 

"To be expected."

 

John shrugged, "I suppose. I'm still hooked up to a catheter so it's not even like I can go for a piss for a change of scene." Greg grimaced, "Sorry. TMI. But, no. Feeling better, they've been turning down the morphine, so I'm feeling... clearer. It does mean, though, that I'm feeling the pain a little more. Overactive receptors are..."

 

"A side effect, yeah I know. Sucks."

 

"Just a little." John smiled and shrugged.

 

"So where's Sherlock wandered off to?"

 

"Oh. I sent him home for a shower. He stays here all the time, but he really needs to treat himself to a little TLC. Besides, Lord knows how long I'll be out of commission. Gotta learn to take care of himself in the meantime."

 

"You know it's not like that right now, don't you?"

 

"Of course I do." John sighed, "I just hate seeing him cooped up here. He's not meant to exist in some tiny, little room."

 

"Has he said anything about being bored?"

 

"No. Since making the nurse cry yesterday, he's been on his best behaviour."

 

Greg laughed, "Made a nurse cry? Pretty run of the mill, isn't it?"

 

"Yeah, I suppose, but I think it was more to do with me." The DI raised a questioning eyebrow. "Male nurse. He... I don't know... triggered me? To be honest, I'm not really sure what he did, or it might have been what he said, I don't know. I wasn't really... coherent throughout the, uhm, abduction. Either way, Sherlock laid into him pretty quick." Greg's face had gone dark. "Come on, don't look at me like that. It's expected - the triggers and things, but it's something I'll get over."

 

"I think what's more worrying is that you don't know what set you off. I mean, any one of us on the Force could say or do something that's a trigger. Hell, you could come to a crime scene and that could set you off."

 

John sighed and stared at the ceiling. When he spoke again his voice was soft. "I know. I love my life with Sherlock - what we do - but I'll only be a hindrance now."

 

" _No_." John snapped his head around so fast he should have got whiplash. Greg put a comforting hand over the doctor's. "That's not what I meant. I just meant that when you're ready to come to a crime scene it'd be useful for me to know what might trigger you. We all look out for each other, alright?"

 

Slowly, John nodded, a small smile lighting his face once more as Greg withdrew his hand. "Alright."

 

"Besides, Sherlock's _intolerable_ without you there to filter him."

 

John giggled, "I can imagine he is." Suddenly his face sobered, "How's he doing, by the way? I know I see him all the time, but he's not really spoken to me about how he's dealing with this and I know he snuck off to see you yesterday. About my exam, right?"

 

The DI nodded grimly. "It hit him pretty hard I think. You know he's not really one for words, John, not when they matter anyway. I think he's still blaming himself, but I've told him not to. You don't blame him, do you?"

 

"God, no."

 

"Exactly. He feels he has to protect you. It's his responsibility. God knows why, you're ex-army, but I guess I can understand it."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"You're not just his first real friend, John." He smiled and rolled his eyes as John's ears pinked, "Yeah, he told me about that too, but that's not what I'm talking about. You're the first person to ever try to understand him and the first to show him that he's not what everyone assumes. You're the first person he's every really trusted and that you equally trust him too is something worth holding on to. He just doesn't want to let that disappear. It's something he protects with the whole of himself and, for that, I respect him. Not for his deductions, but for his humanity that only breaks the surface while you're there." Greg ran a hand through his hair, "What happened to you, it feels like a failure to him."

 

"But it's not. It's _my_ fault. I was the one that got Sherlock out. I didn't know what I was dealing with so I made sure to send him away. I--"

 

"John. He's fine. He's shaken, but he's fine and he sure as _hell_ doesn't blame _you_."

 

"I know that, but-- God." He slammed his head back into the bed. "I hate this. I knew Sherlock would come for me, I knew that without a doubt, but the days blended together and I just... they kept telling me he wasn't coming, but I just couldn't believe that."

 

"That's good. It's really good you have that faith in him and that he has the same in you. You just need to believe that what he's doing now, all this hanging around your bedside and, yes, terrifying the nursing staff isn't just some convoluted for of guilt or pity, but because this is when he feels he needs and wants to be."

 

John nodded, "Thank's, Greg. I actually really needed to hear that."

 

"It's alright. _Christ_ , if I ever have that much faith in a person I'll never let them go."

 

"I'm not planning to."

 

Greg sat in the chair beside the bed and waggled his eyebrows, "So I hear."

 

"Stop it, you."

 

"Never." The DI laughed, "You two dating now or what?"

 

"Not that it's your business but yes. It's going to be complicated, I think."

 

"Most relationships are. You two just happen to have happened in less than savoury circumstances." Greg grimaced, "That sounded insensitive. Sorry."

 

"Nah, you're alright. It's true." He huffed a sigh. "There's a long road ahead, but I think we'll make it."

 

"If any two could, you two could."

 

"I hope so."

 

That moment, Sherlock swept into the room with his usual arrogance and John rolled his eyes. Sherlock sent the doctor a gentle smile before scowling at Lestrade. The DI laughed.

 

"Alright?" Greg asked, grinning.

 

"Yes." Sherlock replied curtly, "Get out of my chair."

 

"Sherlock..." John started, warningly.

 

"He's in my seat." He whined.

 

"He's here to see the invalid, pull up another chair."

 

"It's fine." Greg muttered, standing. "I've got to go home, I'm starving. We were pulling an all nighter on this case, then there was a murder in Whitechapel so we've been to-ing and fro-ing from there too so I'm shattered." He smiled at John and grabbed his shoulder. "Let me know if there's anything you want and I'll bring it along next time."

 

"Alright. Thanks, Greg."

 

"Anytime, mate." He turned and nodded at the lanky detective, "See you later, Sherlock. I might have to drop off the case files for the Whitechapel murder, it pains me to say but we're really struggling on it."

 

"But..." He glanced at John.

 

"He'll help you." John murmured, taking Sherlock's hand in his. Part of Greg warmed at the understanding between the two of them. "Bring the files over when you've got a chance and we'll have a look."

 

"Will do." He glanced at his watch. "I've got to go, but I'll try and pop in tomorrow, alright?"

 

"See you then." John nodded.

 

As he left, he felt a small amount of envy towards the two of them. What he'd said about the trust between them was obvious as an outsider, but perhaps it was something more instinctual between the two of them. Where one went, the other would follow. He couldn't deny that he found it irksome that people - friends and couples alike - worked at that kind of thing for years, and yet it came easy to Sherlock and John.

 

Smiling, he left the hospital and headed home. Considering the circumstances, it was a good thing.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

 

 

The next couple of days, were a bit of a blur to John. People came and went with varying gifts and soft smiles. Mrs. Hudson was the worst - all the crying and piteous glances - Sherlock had bustled her out almost as soon as she'd arrived, but not before snatching the cinnamon biscuits off of her.

 

At the end of the first week and moving into his second week of his hospital-stay, John was propped up in the bed staring down at the case files of the Whitechapel murders - whoever was doing it had escalated at a worrying pace - and frowning. Sherlock was sat in his chair with his hands steepled beneath his chin, traipsing through his mind palace.

 

"Hey, Sherlock?"

 

"Hmm."

 

"There's got to be a connection between these and The Ripper, right?"

 

"How so?" Sherlock frowned and leaned forward.

 

"It's Whitechapel. All the victims are female."

 

"Are those the only reasons?"

 

"No. Look." He flipped the file around and pointed to the crime scene photos. "Although none of them had any organs removed in classic Ripper-style, the cut across their throats is almost identical - the first two with two slashes and the third with a single cut to the jugular vein. Add to that the fact that each of them were murdered in the same streets as the Ripper victims..." He quirked an eyebrow, "Don't you think?"

 

Sherlock stared at him for a couple of seconds, "How do you know so much about the Ripper murders?"

 

John grinned and shrugged, "I read. Besides, working with a consulting detective, I figured I should probably read up on London's most brutal crimes."

 

Sherlock smiled that special smile at him, and John's insides warmed. "Hmm. Insightful. So there's a correlation?"

 

" _I_ think so."

 

"Right. I'll text Lestrade, it may not give him a lead, but it could add to the killer's profile." He said, grabbing his phone and doing just that.

 

"Really?"

 

"Of course. Quite frankly I'm annoyed I didn't see it. So bogged down in the details of material transfer that I missed something obvious. This is why I refer to you as a conductor of light." John grinned at him and pulled the case files back around, although his head was starting to feel fuzzy and he doubted he could add much more than he had given. "It occurred to me, back at the flat, that I'm surprised I've managed all these years without you to bounce ideas off of - though you _know_ it's more than that, don't you?" He looked at John with a vulnerable expression. John smiled and reached for his hand.

 

"I do, now." He murmured.

 

Sherlock squeezed his hand and gifted him a gentle smile, before returning to his mind palace.

 

John allowed his mind to drift a little. With his part done for now, he felt a touch more relaxed. He knew that, by now, Sherlock should be going out of his mind with boredom, but the doctor had been pleasantly surprised by how well-behaved the detective had been. He wondered what it meant.

 

He knew, deep down it wasn't out of guilt or pity, but because he wanted to be here with John, however there was a not so small part of him that questioned it. The tentative kissing sessions made it easier, quietened that part of him and highlighted Sherlock's incredibly human side, just for John.

 

God, but John knew he'd have to face what had happened to him eventually. Especially if this thing - _relationship_ \- with Sherlock was going to progress and, Christ, John hoped it would. Fantasised it would. Considering he had no idea what could trigger him he had no idea whether he'd ever be able to give himself to Sherlock fully. He wanted to, God he wanted to, but he didn't want to scare Sherlock with an unfortunate and ill-timed anxiety attack.

 

He knew that he loved Sherlock. Had for a long time. Better still, he knew beyond doubt that Sherlock felt the same about him. Neither had said it, but it was there in his secretive smile and the way he didn't deduce him. In the way he took John's hand in that hospital and murmured comforting words through full body exams. It was also present in the restless quiet that stole over the detective when he was confronted by what had happened to John. It was, John thought, part of the reason that the trust between them was so strong. It was both comforting and constant.

 

 _Christ_ , the next few months were going to be hard. He knew he was going to book in with another therapist - no way was he going back to Ella about this. He thought he may have to ask Mycroft for a referral, no doubt he knew a truly discreet specialist. He assumed it'd have to be a specialist. Then he worried that maybe Sherlock would want to be involved. He supposed if they were, in fact, a couple he'd have to discuss it with him. Maybe Sherlock would need something more professional than sneaking off to chat to Greg?... Maybe not. He knew that the detective had reservations about 'the talking cure' and if talking it out with Greg made him more comfortable, it was something John could condone.

 

He shivered and Sherlock looked up.

 

"Are you alright?"

 

John smiled, "I'm fine. Thinking."

 

"Don't hurt yourself."

 

"Ha ha. Very funny." He rolled his eyes. "I need you to ask Mycroft for a favour." Sherlock scowled. "I know you hate doing that, but for me?"

 

He sighed. "What for?"

 

John cleared his throat. "I, uhm. I'm gonna need some help getting through this." He paused, hoping Sherlock would read between the lines. However, at his continued silence John sighed and carried on. "Professional help. And I need them to be discreet. The only person I know who values discretion over all else, is Mycroft."

 

"Alright."

 

"Alright? Really? That's it, no argument about how you hate asking him for favours or how it'll mean you owe him a case?"

 

"No." Sherlock shot him an odd look that John couldn't translate. "This is about you. I doubt that Mycroft would try to coerce me into doing a case over this. Even if he did, I wouldn't care."

 

"Really?"

 

"Yes." He reached for John's hand. " _You're_ my exception, John."

 

John smiled. "Ok." He whispered, and if his voice was a little broken and his eyes a little damp, neither of them said anything about it.

 

***

 

"Sherlock. What can I do for you? How is the good doctor?" Mycroft sounded run down and there was the distinct tinkling sound of ice against glass suggesting that he was enjoying a scotch.

 

"John's doing well. He's the reason I'm calling."

 

"I'd guessed."

 

Sherlock scowled. "He's asked me to ask a favour of you. He'd like you to arrange a therapist for him."

 

"He has a therapist."

 

"Don't be obtuse. He wants a discreet specialist for his... situation."

 

"Consider it done, brother. I'll call with an address for a practice and I'll pay for his treatment."

 

"Mycroft..."

 

"Sherlock. With the amount of times he's saved your life, it's the least I can do."

 

The detective huffed put-upon a sigh, "Alright."

 

"Good. Tell John not to worry, I'll ensure the therapist's discretion."

 

"I don't doubt it. And Mycroft?" He paused, debating his next words, "Thank you."

 

"You're welcome Sherlock."


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

 

 

To an outsider, Sally Donovan was cold, harsh and unforgiving. However, she was, in fact, very much a people person and empathetic. During the time that John had been gone, she'd seen a new and unexpected side to the freak. He was beside himself, erratic and restless to a point of pity.

 

Since John had been in the hospital, she had seen neither hide nor hair of the consulting detective and she actually found herself worrying. Which was how she found herself wandering down Barts' corridor towards John's private room.

 

Sally was filled with no small amount of trepidation. She knew she wasn't John's favourite person. He was defensive on Sherlock's behalf and she knew that what she had said about him in the past was out of line - more so after seeing what John's abduction had done to the man - but _God_ did he rile her.

 

Standing outside the door, she took a deep breath as she smoothed her hands down her suit before rapping on the door three times.

 

"Come in." John called, though he sounded a little out of it.

 

Sally opened the door and was a little taken aback by John's appearance. He was propped up in the bed with a book in hand, but he looked thin, drawn. There was a darkness around his eyes suggesting that his sleep was sparse at best. _Nightmares maybe?_ The bruising and cuts around his wrists from being bound for over a week still looked livid, but he was smiling.

 

"Hello, John."

 

"Sally." He nodded at her and placed his book on the table near-by. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Sherlock's not here at the moment, I sent him home for a few things. I should be out of here by the end of the week. Fingers crossed."

 

"How is he? Sherlock I mean." John gave her a peculiar look. "He hasn't been bothering us and I was... I was worried."

 

He regarded her in a way that made her squirm before answering. "He's alright. Still Sherlock." He gestured to the chair beside the bed and she sat down on its edge. "You're one of the first to ask about him, you know, but you're probably better off asking Greg."

 

"Really? Greg?"

 

John shrugged. "Sherlock trusts him, I suppose, with his human side. Not many people get to see it."

 

"I've seen it." She whispered, "While you were, uhm... gone?"

 

"You _can_ say abducted." He said rolling his eyes.

 

"Yes. Well. When you were abducted, I saw his... human side. He was inconsolable."

 

"I should bloody well hope so." He grumbled, but there was a smile on his face.

 

She grinned and settled back in the chair, crossing her arms as she did so. "How're you, anyway? In hindsight I should have asked that first."

 

He waved a hand at her, "You're fine, it's nice to know that someone's worried about him, I suppose it does seem a bit out of character for him not to be irritating everyone at the Yard. I'm fine, recuperating. I might need physiotherapy, but that remains to be seen - I still haven't been out of this bed since I got here. It's driving me nuts."

 

"Has Sherlock been here the whole time?"

 

"Other than the times I send him home or he meets up with Greg, yeah. He's been here with me the whole time, why?"

 

"I was just wondering. Like you said, it seems out of character. I would have assumed he'd be bored by these four walls but now."

 

"Everyone makes that assumption, but he's been really good - kept my mind off my own boredom in any case."

 

"That's good." She took a deep breath, knowing that this could be very much the wrong thing to say, but aware that she had to say it before she exploded. "I'm really sorry for what happened to you, John. And... and I'm sorry for everything I've said about the-- about Sherlock. It was out of line."

 

John nodded and smiled, "Thanks, Sally."

 

She nodded back just as Sherlock swept back into the hospital room. She wasn't surprised by the scowl that slid over his face as he clocked her.

 

"What are _you_ doing here?" He grumbled.

 

" _Sherlock_..." John whined, rubbing a hand over his face. "Behave. She came in to see how we were doing." Sally grinned at the quintessential John-Sherlock dynamic.

 

"We?"

 

"Yeah." He glanced at Sally, "She was worried."

 

Donovan gave John a quick smile and glanced at her watch. She stood and moved to the end of the bed. "I'm glad you're both alright, but I've got to get to work. The Super is running our arses into the ground over the Whitechapel murders." She turned to Sherlock. "Thanks for the extra insight into the killer's profile, by the way."

 

"That was John, but you're welcome." There was only a hint of the usual sarcasm in his voice as he sat in the chair Sally had just vacated. "Tell Lestrade that I'll bring everything we've worked through to the Yard tomorrow."

 

She frowned at him, but nodded her acquiescence. "Fine. John, I'll let everyone know you're fine, we've got quite a few on the Force who've been asking after you. Seems you've made an impression." Sally nodded at Sherlock once more and left the room.

 

She was halfway to the lifts when she realised that she'd left her mobile in John's room. Doubling back she was just about to knock on the doorframe when she caught sight of the room's occupants.

 

It was surreally domestic - though perhaps that was because _Sherlock_ was part of it. The detective was sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the door and he was holding John's hand. John was smiling up at him with the kind of smile that spoke volumes. And then, right before her eyes, Sherlock leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss over those smiling lips before pulling back to rest his forehead to John's. They were murmuring to each other, whispering, and then John nodded, kissed Sherlock again and ran a gentle hand down his cheek, wincing as the IV pulled.

 

When Sherlock sat back into his chair, he was grinning in a satisfied way and Sally turned away, face burning. _So human_. She had never felt so ashamed of herself as she slipped back down the corridor.

 

She'd have to ask Greg to pick up her phone next time he visited. She wasn't sure that she could face to two of them again until she had tight reign over the envy bubbling inside her, or the guilt of what she'd said to the two of them over the years.

 

 _Good for them_ , she thought.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

 

 

Two days later, John began showing signs of a low grade fever, indicative of infection. His shivering gotten worse and they'd had to up the morphine level a little. Doctor Marques had said that it was a complication of John's rape-related injuries and that it could well set back his release time; as it stood, it could be another week before the two of them officially left the hospital.

 

"Sorry, Sh-Sherlock." John whispered, as they held hands.

 

"What on Earth for?" John's hand was worryingly hot and damp.

 

"We're n-not going to be able to l-leave for another week n-now."

 

"Don't be stupid, John. Even if it takes months, I'd rather be here with you than facing the world alone."

 

John smiled shakily at him, wincing as the shivering increased in intensity. "T-tell me about when you were away..."

 

Sherlock frowned. Since his return and Mary's subsequent departure from their lives, John had never mentioned the time that he'd been absent. He _never_ spoke about Mary - neither of them did. "Why?"

 

John attempted to shrug. "I'd like to know. 'M ready t-to listen."

 

"Ready?"

 

"Yeah. It was... difficult w-when you were away. Hard to move on. Hard to breathe. Had a r-really hard time forgiving you f-for leaving." Sherlock squeezed his hand and John smiled softly. "Forgiven. I never asked w-what happened to you or why. I should have done. I'm asking n-now."

 

Sherlock stared at John and rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand. He leant down and pressed a kiss to John's hairline. "Alright." He murmured, pulling away to push his chair closer still. "Moriarty... he had snipers stationed to kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you. He killed himself before I could convince him to call them off. My three most important people." He regarded John as he shuffled a little closer to the edge of his bed to grasp Sherlock's hand a little more tightly. His eyes were distinctly wet. "I couldn't let that happen, John. I had to jump to save you all, and _you_ had to be the one to sell my death... I hate that I did that to you."

 

He paused for so long that John squeezed his hand and made a questioning noise.

 

"Sorry." He muttered. "Lost in my head there."

 

"You d-don't have to go into any details. I know what l-living with past trauma is like. It's h-hard to talk about." A violent shiver wracked his body and he closed his eyes with a grimace, before opening them and fixing Sherlock with a tired stare. "Just tell me where you went."

 

Sherlock smiled gratefully at him and impulsively pressed a kiss to the doctor's knuckles. "I promise to tell you everything one day, John." John nodded and smiled weakly. "First, I disposed of Mrs. Hudson's would-be assassin, then Lestrade's. Yours I didn't manage to track until the last six months. I knew I would have to take down the rest of Moriarty's network - I didn't know who knew what and whether there would be a bounty on your heads. It turns out that there was." He took a deep breath, "As for where I went... to begin with, I went to Ireland..."

 

***

 

When John finally fell asleep, Sherlock gently kissed his burning forehead and whispered into his ear. "You are my _everything_." He smiled as the doctor snuffled, before quietly pulling away.

 

With an oddly heavy heart he wandered into the corridor and pulled out his phone.

 

It rang three times before Mycroft's familiar voice floated over the connection.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"He's sick, Mycroft."

 

"I know, little brother."

 

"Make him better."

 

The elder Holmes sighed, "That is one thing out of my control, I'm afraid. The only thing any of us can do is wait."

 

"But... it _hurts_ , My."

 

Mycroft swallowed at hearing the childhood nickname - a device used only when Sherlock was feeling lost.

 

"Sherlock, do you remember when you were seven? You got the 'flu."

 

"Of course I remember, what of it?"

 

"You developed a high fever and it progressed into pneumonia. I was fourteen. Father and Mummy had left us in the care of Geraldine - the final nanny - and she was incompetent. You almost died one night..." Mycroft sighed again and ran a hand down his face as he poured himself a scotch. "You were shivering so hard, I swore I could hear your _bones_ rattling and the sweat barely had a chance to settle on your skin before steaming. I stole Father's car and drove you to the hospital... it was the longest hour of my life, and when we got there, they took you out of my arms and into a room. They wouldn't let me see you for twenty minutes while they stabilised you. _God_ , you were so small." He took a swig from the tumbler in his hand. "When I was finally allowed in, they told me that had I waited any longer, you could well have died that night. I talked to you the whole time you were there. You slipped in and out of consciousness, kept telling me about giant spiders in the room. I was so _scared_. When morning came, Father and Mummy ran into your room. Apparently Geraldine had told them that I had kidnapped you. Father slapped me once around the face, told me never to do it again and then hugged me. I think that he was probably scared too. Mummy was crying, of course, but Father held my hand and said, 'You did the right thing, Mike. Geraldine has been asked to pack her bags.'."

 

Sherlock breathed deeply, reliving the foggy memories of that night. He remembered the spiders. "Why are you telling me this?"

 

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

 

"Mycroft--"

 

"But when you do care, it's an inevitability that when those you care about are sick, injured or hurting, you hurt right alongside them. It's not an advantage. But it's not wrong to care either."


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

 

 

The fever got worse before it got better. Although Sherlock knew it would, it was still horrible to watch it ravage John the way it did. The morning after he had called Mycroft, John began suffering hallucinations. Horrid ghastly things involving, from what he cried out, arid deserts and monsters with long, reaching fingers. Dark shadows and nightmarish things. But it was as the day progressed into the afternoon, that Sherlock was shocked by the latest vision.

 

"Sherlock." John hissed at him. "She's here."

 

He regarded John's glassy eyes, the sweat on his brow. "Who John?"

 

"Mary. May's here. She has a gun." The doctor trembled, "You have to go, leave."

 

Sherlock came and sat on the bed's edge and gently grasped John's hand. "There's no-one here but you and I, John. I'm not going to leave you alone."

 

"But you have to. She'll kill you."

 

"No, John, she won't." Frightened, fever-glazed eyes stared up at him. "You know she's not here. That she can't be here."

 

John shook his head frantically and returned his gaze to the foot of the bed. Sherlock ran his fingers soothingly through John's sweat-slick hair. "Tell me what she looks like. What is she wearing?"

 

"Her wedding dress." John whispered. "She's pregnant."

 

"Her hair colour."

 

"Brown."

 

"Why isn't it blonde?"

 

"I don't know."

 

"Yes you do. Why is she brunette?"

 

John paused, the panic in his eyes fading a little as his fevered mind put it together. "She was brunette the day she left. The day Mycroft found her and took her away."

 

"Yes. Why is she in her wedding dress?"

 

"Because she was my wife... no. She wasn't my wife. Her name isn't Mary. What's her name?" John glanced at Sherlock.

 

"Amanda. Amanda Georgina Rachel Adams."

 

"A.G.R.A."

 

"Yes, A.G.R.A."

 

"She's pregnant."

 

"Why?"

 

"She wasn't really pregnant. She took that from me. Fatherhood."

 

Sherlock sighed. The truth was that John wasn't ready to be a father. Not really. He'd panicked when Sherlock had told him. He certainly hadn't wanted to be a parent alongside Mary - not after he knew what she was.

 

"Have I ever told you how much I wanted kids?" John asked suddenly.

 

That surprised him. "No."

 

"Hmm. Too late now, I suppose."

 

It wasn't. Whether he meant telling Sherlock how much or actually having children, it wasn't too late. John was only thirty-eight. "Is she still here?"

 

"No." John sighed and gripped Sherlock's hand a little tighter. "She left."

 

"Good."

 

"Yes." His eyelids fluttered closed and he sighed heavily. "I'm tired."

 

Sherlock smiled tenderly at him. He pressed a kiss to his sweating hairline. "Go to sleep. I'll be here."

 

John smiled, his eyes still closed, "I know. You're constant."

 

It didn't take long for John to fall asleep and it left Sherlock wondering about the fact that John wanted children. That was a facet even Sherlock had missed. He supposed it was a natural thing for most people to want, but he had never considered it for himself. By proxy he assumed that the same had been for John. Not least because of the lives they led. Perhaps it was worth discussing.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine it for a moment. Now that he had John, he knew would never be able to give him up. He envisioned coming home after a case to find John asleep on the sofa and a babbling child on his chest. The promise of a young mind to occupy his own after a case barely ranking a three needed his judgement. In all these fantasies however, there was John as his anchor, immovable in a storm and welcoming him. Loving him in the ways he did most. Sharing with him secretive smiles as the child - their child - made their first steps. It was a heartbreakingly beautiful picture.

 

He shook it away with a soft sigh. There was time, if it was something John wanted. First, he had to recover. He glanced at John's sleeping face and smiled lightly. He kissed the back of the hand still clutched in his. "I will do _anything_ to make you happy." He whispered.

 

***

 

It took a further two days to bring John's temperature within the normal range.

 

"God, I _stink_!" He moaned, weakly moving his arms, "How can you stand it?"

 

"John." He raised an eyebrow at him, "You are aware that we work with dead people, aren't you?"

 

"Yes," he laughed, "but this is foul. God, I wish I could shower."

 

"The fever has set that back a couple of days, but you're definitely eligible for a sponge-bath."

 

"I'm not sure whether I'd prefer the stink."

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave him a fond smile. "I'll call the nurse in and I'll be here the whole time."

 

John smiled at him and caught his hand before he turned to do just that. "You don't need to keep telling me you're going to stay, you know. I know you're going to be here. Besides, I know you hate repeating yourself."

 

Sherlock grinned at him, "Under any other circumstance, yes, I do hate repeating myself, but for the moment, I want to make sure you know, even when I'm back at the flat showering or fetching you another book of drivel, I'm _always_ coming back."

 

"I do know."

 

"Good." On impulse he swooped down to press a chaste kiss to John's chapped lips. "Right, I'll get the nurse."

 

The sponge-bath, it turned out, was better than nothing. Sherlock noticed John valiantly attempting to suppress his instinctive urge to flinch away, but said nothing. He knew John was doing it for his sake and something about it made his chest hurt. He squeezed John's hand.

 

John smiled up at him.

 

When the nurse finally left, John sighed and settled back.

 

"That feels _so_ much better."

 

"I knew it would."

 

"Of _course_ you did." John laughed, then frowned. "I'm sorry by the way. I can't really remember much of the fever, but I assume I said some odd things?"

 

Sherlock considered for a moment before replying, "I suppose so."

 

"Care to share?"

 

"Hmm?" Sherlock returned his gaze to John and found the doctor looking at him tenderly. "You spoke of the desert." He paused. "Mary."

 

John sighed, "Yeah... I vaguely remember that... I thought it was a dream."

 

"In a way it was, but you worked through it."

 

"You _helped_ me through it. Thank you for that." John smiled at him. "I actually haven't thought of her in ages."

 

"Really?"

 

John shrugged, still smiling, "She saved my life after... you know, _after_." Sherlock frowned but acknowledged that without Mary, John may well have not been here when he returned. Mycroft had told him it had been a downwards spiral from day one and a close call until Mary. "But I think she fulfilled her purpose."

 

"What was that?"

 

"She... it's hard to explain." John frowned. "I was in a dark place, and she let the light in. She allowed me to hold on until you came back to me." He huffed a laugh, "Doesn't mean I didn't fall out of love with her pretty quick though... but I s'pose that showed me how nothing, how _no-one_ could ever have changed my life as much as you have." John looked at him, his face open and affectionate. "You're _it_ for me. I thought I'd realised it too late that day at Barts. Then you came back from the dead."

 

"You wanted children." Sherlock blurted, face growing hot. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

 

John placed a gentle hand over his. "It's fine, Sherlock. Yes. I do..." His face took on a wistful expression, "When the time comes." He glanced vulnerably at Sherlock. "With the person who means the world to me and not some replacement."

 

"Alright."

 

"Alright?" John stared at him incredulously.

 

"I've been... thinking about it for a few days... since you mentioned it when you had the fever. With you I could do that, _be_ that."

 

"But... the Work..."

 

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, "You are the Work. My greatest mystery."

 

John's eyes shimmered. "High praise." He whispered hoarsely.

 

"The highest." Sherlock smiled and kissed John's knuckles. "Before we have a real discussion about any of that, though, you need to get better. First things first, more blood tests today. They want to check that there's no risk of septicaemia and various... uhm... various STI's."

 

"A standard day in my current life, then?"

 

Sherlock smiled sadly, "Just a little longer, then we'll go home."

 

"How long has this set it back?"

 

"Ten days. They want to be certain that you can manage stairs and that you can eat and... pass solid food before we leave."

 

"Humiliating but necessary."

 

"Indeed." Sherlock squeezed the hand still twined with his own. "Not long now, John, then home to Baker Street."

 

"Hmm. Can't wait."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

* * *

 

 

The following day, John received his results. All clear. _For now._ But it was good news, nonetheless. Sherlock was buzzing with the need to celebrate this tiny milestone, even as John shivered through another morphine lowering. Sherlock grasped John's shaking hand in his.

 

"Nine days." He said.

 

"Yeah. Not long now."

 

Sherlock smiled. "John?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"The results... It's good, yeah?"

 

"Yeah. Still have about six months till I get the all clear though." Sherlock's face darkened. "Don't look like that, love. It'll be fine."

 

"And if... and if it's not?"

 

John shrugged, "Then we'll work through it. Just like always."

 

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, swiping his thumb across John's knuckles.

 

"I'll get tested too."

 

"What?" John turned incredulous eyes to Sherlock's.

 

"I'll get tested too."

 

John narrowed his eyes. "I thought you said you didn't need to get tested?"

 

"I don't... not really." He swallowed and looked to John's with honest eyes. "John, I..." He stopped. Swallowed again. "John... during the time that I felt I needed drugs to function, I had my own... my own, uhm, instruments." John nodded encouragingly and gripped his hand a little tighter. "Always clean, only ever used by me. But..." He sighed and scrubbed his other hand over his face. "Mycroft cut off my funds. I can understand, now, why he did it, but at the time I _hated_ him for it. I had to... I found another way to pay."

 

"Oh, Sherlock." John murmured, his voice unsteady as he reached to pressed his fingers to the detective's head and through his hair.

 

Sherlock shook his head. "Not as bad as it sounds, I assure you, and I was always careful... but I wasn't always in my right mind. I think... I think that if we're to explore the possibility of us, the whole of us, then we would feel at ease knowing both of our status' on the matter."

 

John smiled sadly at him, but nodded his head, "Agreed. Though, it has to be said, we never really _have_ talked about sexual..." he swallowed hard, "sexual history."

 

"Why would we? We were never _this_ before." He raised John's hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss there.

 

"I s'pose." He shrugged. "Guys just tend to talk about that stuff. How many people they've slept with, how many times etcetera... I just never - after that night at Angelo's I just sort of assumed you'd never... you know?"

 

"Understandable." Sherlock nodded then smirked, " _You_ , on the other hand, are Three Continents Watson, or so I've heard."

 

John grimaced and blushed, "Oh, God. I should have known you'd catch wind of that. It's not what it sounds like." Sherlock's smirk grew; John sighed. "There were several women on the base. A few of which turned out to be from three different continents, alright?"

 

Sherlock grinned a shit-eating grin. "When Bill Murray was last in London, he told me that the women were lining up for you."

 

John's blush deepened and Sherlock decided it was a very fetching colour, "Hmm. The girls... they may have, uhm... bragged about it?"

 

"The women did?"

 

"Army women are not your average girls. It takes a certain amount of boldness to make it - despite the fact that many of them are better at their assigned jobs. They may have _exaggerated_ a few points, but it's how I ended up with the nickname." He grinned at Sherlock, "Don't expect anything fancy when we finally get in the sack together."

 

"Wouldn't want you as anyone but yourself."

 

"Well, good." John smiled, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "What about you?"

 

"What about me?"

 

"Other than... when Mycroft cut off your funds, what about you?"

 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, just staring at his blogger. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it abruptly.

 

"We don't have to talk about it now, Sherlock, alright?  It's all fine." John smiled at him in that special way, and Sherlock exhaled an unsteady breath and nodded. "Nothing... _bad_ happened, though, right?"

 

"No. Nothing bad."

 

"Ok, then." John settled back more fully into the bed, shivering a little and grimacing at a flare of pain. "Any new cases?"

 

Sherlock shook his head, "No. Lestrade's still stuck on the Whitechapel murders."

 

"Have there been any more victims?"

 

"Not yet, but I'm expecting another in the next few days. If your Ripper theory is correct, there are three more victims expected."

 

"Have you been to any of the crime scenes?"

 

Sherlock gave him an odd look, "Of course not. I've been working off Anderson's photos."

 

John frowned, "You _hate_ doing that." The detective looked down at their entwined hands. " _Sherlock_." John groaned. "You _can_ go to crime scenes. I don't mind."

 

"I don't want to."

 

"You do. It's got to be killing you, knowing there's a crime scene that could use your expertise."

 

"I don't want to."

 

"Don't _lie_ to me." Sherlock's head snapped up at the command and John's face softened instantly. "I know you. Go to the next crime scene and you'll have it figured out in no time."

 

"But--"

 

"No 'buts', Sherlock. You need to stretch your wings a little."

 

"It's not the same without you." He muttered, resting his head on the back of John's hand.

 

The doctor's heart thudded painfully in his chest. "I'm gonna be out of commission for a while, I'm afraid. You'll have to go on your own at some point, why not now?"

 

"Not ready."

 

"Not ready?" John ran his free hand through Sherlock's curls.

 

"No." He shook his head, "I'm not ready to do it without you."

 

"Why?"

 

Sherlock shrugged. "Need to be here."

 

John smiled sadly and tugged on his curls, making him lift his face in irritation. He grabbed Sherlock's chin. "Alright." He said and Sherlock's face brightened, " _But_ , I have a condition." Sherlock gave him a puzzled look, "If there is a fifth victim before you solve the case, you are to go to the crime scene."

 

"John--"

 

"No arguments on this." He ran a gentle hand over those incredible cheekbones. "This is who you are, Sherlock. You can't let what happened to me stop you from being who you are, alright? Ultimately, I'll heal, but if you don't catch this guy? That'll hurt your sense of self. I _know_ you, love. It kills you a little whenever you can't solve something, and I won't be the reason, alright? I _can't_ be the reason."

 

Sherlock searched John's earnest face before nodding. "Alright, John." He smiled and kissed the doctor's nose. "I agree to your terms."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

 

 

In the end, their agreement was irrelevant. Before a fourth victim was murdered, Sherlock had poured over the photo evidence at John's side and found an important clue pertaining to the killer's identity. He had been arrested within twenty-four hours and Sherlock had smirked winningly at John.

 

"Alright, alright." John huffed, "Should've known you'd find something."

 

"Obviously." Sherlock grinned.

 

"So." John adjusted his position on the bed a little, shaking out the newspaper on his lap. "Eight days now."

 

"Yes."

 

"They lowered the morphine level again."

 

"They did."

 

"You know it's going to be difficult at home, don't you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No access to morphine at all. It's going to take at least two weeks for the drugs to no longer be a part of the equation. It should be easier than it would have been thanks to the regular weaning I'm getting here, but--"

 

"John." He grasped the doctor's hand. "It's fine. We'll be fine. I know what withdrawal feels like, what can exacerbate it and how to deal with it. We'll be fine. I can help you through this part." John smiled and Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the back of John's hand. "I'll be here throughout this, but withdrawal is something I know intimately."

 

"Ok. I may not be myself, you know."

 

"Oh, I know, but you'll still be John. You'll just be a little buried, that's all."

 

John smiled sadly. "It could be more than that, but I trust you to know how to handle me."

 

"Good. So you should."

 

John grinned and returned his gaze to his newspaper. "How's Molly, by the way? I haven't seen her since... well, since before."

 

A shadow of pain swept over Sherlock's face, but it was gone before John could properly decipher it. "She's alright. I told her that you're here, but I think she's worried she'll say something wrong or make you uncomfortable."

 

"Oh! Tell her not to worry. Can't be worse than Mrs. Hudson."

 

"I disagree."

 

"Don't be horrid." John giggled.

 

"Apologies."

 

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, the quiet only disturbed by the occasional turning of a page.

 

"John?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"I called Mycroft... about a therapist."

 

"Oh." John sighed and pushed the newspaper away. "And?"

 

"He's given me the contact details for a discreet therapist office, and told me to pass on that information." He handed over a card and watched as John gave it a blank stare before setting it on the bed-table.

 

"Ok."

 

"Apparently they specialise in field agents that have suffered..." He swallowed, "That have suffered the same thing you have. But... just know you don't have to go until you're ready."

 

"I know. Thank you for sorting that out, Sherlock. Really."

 

"Don't mention it."

 

***

 

Sherlock had left to shower at Baker Street and pick up another book for John. In his absence. John stared down at the contact details he'd been gifted with. He flicked the card a couple of times, flipped it over, twirled it between his middle and index finger and tapped it against his lips. With a huff, he reached for the phone Sherlock had bought him to replace the one he'd lost over the course of his abduction.

 

He was filled with a kind of trepidation he didn't really understand. He knew he'd have to go to therapy. There was no way he would be able to give all of himself to Sherlock otherwise - and then there was the distinct, and very real, possibility of anxiety attacks sledge-hammering him while they're in a dangerous case-related situation. Unacceptable.

 

He was vaguely aware that he would have to _talk_ through what happened to him, but the truth was he didn't recall _exactly_ what happened to him - nor what his triggers were. He supposed that was, in the basest sense, the reason for therapy.

 

"Come on, Watson. You've done therapy before." He muttered to himself as he shakily keyed in the digits. "Nothing to it."

 

His hand trembled as he held the phone to his ear. The line buzzed three times before a cheery receptionist picked up.

 

"Michaels and White Therapist Office, Angela speaking, how can I help?"

 

"Uhm. M-my name's John Watson, I need to make an appointment for next month."

 

There was a tapping indicative of Angela entering his name into her computer. "Ah, yes. Doctor Watson. We have your name on our database already." _Thank you, Mycroft_. "I'll set you up with an appointment on the eighteenth of next month with Dr. Alice Jones. What time would you prefer?"

 

"Thank you." He cleared his throat. "Uhm. I'll be free all day I should think."

 

"Alright." More tapping. "How does ten-thirty suit?"

 

"Uh, yeah. Fine. Thank you."

 

"No problem, Dr. Watson. Have a good day."

 

"You too."

 

The line went dead and John stared at his phone for a moment. The odd sense of terror at having to relive his experience hadn't really dissipated, but he had to admit there was a lesser tension to it now. As if just knowing he was taking this step to... get better made him breathe a little easier.

 

Shaking himself he opened his list of contacts and sent off a text:

 

 _Thank you, Mycroft_. _JW_

 

He didn't think he would need to sign the text, or elaborate the reason for his thanks, he figured that the British government would understand.

 

He placed the phone back onto the bedside cabinet and settled back into the bed with a sigh. He allowed his mind to wander to Sherlock.

 

The man was his rock. He knew it and he hoped to God that Sherlock knew it. The past few weeks had been rife with unsavoury situations, unfortunate, often ill-timed, panic attacks and repetitive medical tests. The next few weeks, he knew, would probably be just as bad - possibly worse - and that would be fine, provided that Sherlock was there with him.

 

He smiled as he recalled that first tentative kiss - tentative of Sherlock's part in any case and he had been grateful for that. That he had asked had been both surprising and welcome. He wasn't sure how he would have reacted otherwise, and he was so, _so_ glad that the kiss hadn't been something of a bad memory for the two of them and had, instead, lead to what they were now.

                                                                                

Dating.

 

 _Oh, God. I'm dating_ _Sherlock Holmes_.

 

It still felt surreal, but he wouldn't change that feeling for the world. He cherished it all the more, because it felt like some strange dream. If it was a dream, he hoped he'd never wake up. He'd waited years for it.

 

And that was why he needed to get better, physically and emotionally. He wouldn't let anything stand in the way of the two of them becoming what he felt they were meant to be.

 

One day, somewhere down the road, after he had overcome his demons, he wanted to be able to give everything he had to Sherlock. His mind, body and soul.

 

A small smile anointed his lips. It was going to be a long road, but he knew without a shadow of doubt that they would make it.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

* * *

 

She was dithering. She knew she was dithering, but Sherlock had told her that John would like to see her, had noticed her absence during his recovery. She fluttered around outside John's room, something she'd been doing for about ten minutes.

 

Molly didn't know why she was so nervous, it was just John.

 

 _John who's been abducted. John who's been raped._ Her mind not-so-helpfully supplied. _Stop it. It's just John._

 

She squared her shoulders and strode purposely to his door. Knocking sharply she was a touch surprised to hear Sherlock answer.

 

"Come in, Molly." He called. She wasn't shocked that he knew it was her, and with a smile she opened the door.

 

"Hi." She murmured, gaze falling on John propped up in the bed.

 

"Molly!" John beckoned her over. "You've come on a good day."

 

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows and accepted the rather awkward one armed hug.

 

"Yes." Sherlock supplied, a twinkle in his eye. "Finally no IV or catheter."

 

" _Sherlock_." John hissed with a reproachful glance. "TMI."

 

Sherlock shrugged and returned his gaze to the book in his lap: _Venomous Reptiles and Their Toxins: Evolution, Pathopysiology and Biodiscovery_.

 

 _Interesting read_. She thought.

 

"S-so, how're you feeling?" She blushed a little. She knew John probably felt like shit, but it felt like the safest thing to say.

 

"Pretty good. Like I said, today is a good day. Finally not connected to every bloody torture device they have here."

 

"Doctor's really _do_ make the worst patients, then?" She smiled shakily.

 

"I know that I certainly do." He winked. Molly thought that, for a man who had suffered through the worst thing she could imagine (and she worked with cadavers), he did look very light hearted.

 

"Sherlock not giving you any trouble?" She enquired lightly, smiling a little and blushing terribly as the detective's head snapped up to give her a reproachful glare before he returned to his book.

 

John smiled the softest smile, glancing at Sherlock. "Nah. Been on his best behaviour this one."

 

She spared a glance at the dark-haired man and was taken aback by the grin twitching at the corners of his mouth and around his eyes, but most especially, the gentle rosy hue to his cheeks.

 

"A-are you two... what I mean is, uhm..." She trailed off and John gave her a puzzled frown as she flustered.

 

"Are we... what, Molly?" He asked.

 

Sherlock sighed, "Yes." He said, simply. He kept a slender finger on his page and closed the book around it, fixing Molly with a stare. "John and I are..." he glanced at John, quirking his lips, " _remarkably_ , well... dating. For lack of a better term. Problem?"

 

" _No_!" She hastened to say, "God, no. I'm happy for you both. It was bound to happen at some point."

 

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Sherlock asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.

 

John laughed, "Everyone seemed to know before you and I did, that's why."

 

"I suppose this means Greg wins the betting pool then?" Molly asked, the grin on her face so wide she was almost certain it appeared manic.

 

"Yes." Sherlock provided.

 

"He always was rooting for the two of you." She murmured, she glanced at her watch. "I need to go soon. I'm annoyed I spent so long in the corridor."

 

"You needn't worry about upsetting me, Molly." John said kindly, eyes soft and face open. Her heart broke when she thought about what those _monsters_ did to this man. This kind, sweet, brave man. "I already assured Sherlock that no-one could be worse that Mrs. Hudson." He winked. "I know you're far cleverer than anyone gives you credit for, and just as sensitive. Pop in anytime you want, I could do with someone else's company now and again."

 

"Thank _you_." Sherlock huffed and returned his nose to his book, but there was a smile on his face. Molly got the impression that he was giving the two of them some semblance of privacy.

 

"I'm out of here in eight days though, so you may have to pop by the flat after that. I won't be up to running around after His Nibs for three months or so, so I won't be swinging by Bart's either. You're always welcome."

 

She smiled down at him, tucked a stray curl behind her ear then leaned down. She pressed a dry kiss to his cheek.

 

"You keep him right." She whispered. "Don't you dare hurt him."

 

He wrapped a gentle hand around the top of her arm and returned the gentle kiss. "Wouldn't dream of it, Miss. Hooper." He replied just as quietly, smile evident in his voice.

 

She stood up and took a step back, glancing at her watch again. "I have to get to work. I'll come by again in a couple of days, maybe bring some solid food, yeah?" John nodded eagerly, but Sherlock frowned.

 

"It could be a little longer than two days before he's on solid food, Molly." He said.

 

She smiled brightly in response. "Then I'll bring along something for him to look forward to, something that won't perish."

 

"Thank you, Molly." John groaned, "I can't wait!"

 

She grinned at him. "And you, Sherlock Holmes, you look after him, you hear?"

 

" _Obviously_. And," he drawled, "I do _have_ two perfectly functioning eardrums."

 

It was so _Sherlock_ that Molly giggled. " _Good_." She said. "I'll see you both soon." With a quick wave and another smile, she scurried back to the door. She paused and turned back to them. "For the record, I really am very happy for you two."

 

The two men smiled at each other before replying at the same time. "Thank you, Molly."

 

She nodded and finally left the room with a thudding heart.

 

As she reached the safety of the morgue, she finally allowed the tears to fall. After everything they had been through, those two deserved happiness, and she had meant what she'd said about being happy for them. She really had. But there was a miniscule part of her that felt it was incredibly unfair.

 

She supposed it was almost a sense of finders-keepers. She'd known and tried to understand Sherlock's quirks for far longer than John had even known the detective. At that thought, more tears made her eyes burn.

 

 _Poor John_. Anyone with eyes could see the affinity John and Sherlock had for one another and right now, it was killing Sherlock that there was nothing he could do but wait for John to heal.

 

It had been clear to her, from the first time she saw the two together, that they were kindred souls. Something meant to be. And although it killed her a little bit inside, she knew she didn't have the gall to even _try_ to come between that. They loved each other. There was no two ways about it and it was inescapable.

 

She shook herself and viciously swiped at her eyes.

 

"Don't you dare." She hissed to herself. "No more. You are going to sweep this _infatuation_ aside. You've spent far too much time waiting for Sherlock to notice you and you shouldn't have to do it. You're going to call Greg. He's a lovely man, and far more worthy of you than Sherlock ever was, and you know it." She smiled a little to herself and blushed. "Buck up your courage and ask him for a coffee, you silly cow. If you're honest with yourself, you've had the biggest crush on him for _years_."

 

Emotional breakdown over, she sniffed, snapped on some gloves and moved to the latest cadaver on the table, promising herself that she was going to move on to better things.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

* * *

 

As deep night fell, Sherlock pushed the spare bed close to John's. John watched in fascination as Sherlock crawled into the bed fully clothed and collapsed, face turned towards him.

 

"Finally giving in to the demands of your transport?" He asked, brows raised and mirth shimmering in his eyes. Sherlock nodded, eyes drooping. "When was the last time you slept?"

 

Sherlock shrugged and rolled to his side, propping himself up on his elbow to stare at John. "I'm not certain, but I think possibly before your fever. I found it... I couldn't sleep You needed me."

 

" _Sherlock_." John groaned, rubbing a hand over his face as he painfully rolled to face Sherlock - another encouraged accomplishment of the day. "You know that your brother sorted the best care for me, don't you? These doctors and nurses know what they're doing."

 

The detective frowned. "I know that." He whispered. "Hang on."

 

He got up from the bed and crossed the room to turn off the light. The light from the corridor filtered in and cast long shadows across the room, leaving the two of them in relative darkness. He watched Sherlock slip back into the bed and wrap the sparse covers around himself as he turned back to John.

 

"This will be easier."

 

"How do you mean?"

 

"Isn't easier to share things in the dark?" Sherlock murmured.

 

John's heart went out to the incredible man across from him and he reached out his hand, sighing gently as Sherlock took it.

 

"I suppose so." He answered. "So why haven't you slept?"

 

"Thinking too much, mostly."

 

" _You_?"

 

"Of course. This isn't easy for me, John. Caring for someone. It hurts." He swallowed, "At least for the moment, it hurts."

 

John remained silent, waiting for the detective to sieve through his thoughts. He was rewarded as he took a breath and began to speak.

 

"I... seeing you in that warehouse was... it killed some part of me I didn't know I had until recently. Not killed." He corrected with a frown. "Damaged, maybe. When you were suffering through your fever, too, this part of me... I don't know, squirmed? I was restless. Helpless. There was nothing I could do but wait - and you know how good I am at _that_. But I will wait until forever for you, if that's what I need to do." He smiled across at John and squeezed his hand.

 

John's chest was tight with yet unsaid feeling and he smiled back with wet eyes.

 

"The thinking stemmed from that." Sherlock shrugged. "It's hard to see someone you care about suffer this way, John. I understand now what I put Mycroft through with my addiction and you when I jumped - not to the same extent, I fully admit, but I understand why you were so angry with me. I couldn't have imagined what I would have done if... if this had been voluntary." His next words were growled. "Even now I want to stroll into the holding-cells and kill the _bastards_ that did this to you. Tear them limb from limb and be everything Donovan says I am. I'd enjoy it, John. That scares me."

 

John squeezed Sherlock's hand.

 

"That's normal, Sherlock." He whispered back. "If someone hurts someone you lo-- someone you care about, that's normal."

 

Sherlock would have noticed the minute slip in his speech, but surreptitiously allowed it to slide and instead huffed.

 

" _Normal_?" He sneered. "I think we can conclude that I am anything but _normal_."

 

"True." John conceded, "But that's what makes you brilliant." He paused, debating whether what he wanted to say next was a good idea. He lowered his voice further, conspiratorially. "What I said... when Molly was here about everyone knowing before we did?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"That wasn't _strictly_ true." He admitted. He laced his fingers with Sherlock's.

 

"No?"

 

"No." He took a deep breath. "After the pool. I knew then that there was only one direction we were heading." He saw Sherlock open his mouth to say _something_ but quickly rushed over him. "I don't make a habit of offering my life for other people's. You've always been an exception and I'm beginning to understand that I'm the same to you. Maybe always have been? When you jumped off that roof... I died that day. Then you came back. You told me that you heard me at your graveside an you answered my prayer. But this," he raised their joined hands, "this was worth dying for, Sherlock. Everything we had and everything we could have been and everything we _are_ without Moriarty between us was worth dying for."

 

Sherlock's eyes were wet and wide and John smiled shakily at him.

 

"Too much, too soon?"

 

" _No_." The detective rasped. "No." He wriggled closer on the bed. so close his knees touched John's and the doctor thought that there was _no_ way that could be comfortable. He curled in on himself, clutching John's hand in both his own and pressing reverent kisses along his knuckles. "I... I feel the same way, John. Is this what..." He looked up at John with vulnerable eyes and licked his lips. "Is this love?"

 

From anyone else, the question would have made John laugh, but Sherlock's blank honesty as he asked made the doctor's heart clench instead. This was all so new to the man that John felt just a little bit broken in the face of his child-like inexperience.

 

"Yes." He whispered hoarsely, deciding it was worth the truth, even if it left him flayed open and exposed to the elements. He dragged the taller man's face to his with both hands. "Yes, it is."

 

Sherlock leaned towards him and gently, so, _so_ gently pressed their mouths together. It was chaste and it was _glorious_. It promised lazy mornings in bed and night's spent together in gentle love-making when they were ready.

 

Sherlock shifted and ran his hand down John's cheek and John felt a quiver in those usually confident fingers. He ran a hand through dark locks and allowed the kiss to deepen.

 

Tongues slid together affirming their words, their feelings. It felt to John as though he was slowly being broken apart and rebuilt by Sherlock's tongue and when they pulled apart he wasn't surprised to find the detective's cheeks damp, nor feel the answering wetness on his own face.

 

"I love you." He said with a noise catching in his throat, sounding suspiciously like a sob.

 

Sherlock grinned and shimmied impossibly closer. "I love you, John."

 

They regarded one another for what felt like an age with gentle hands grazing faces, arms, necks and hair and exchanging soft kisses. Each fell asleep with their hands entwined and quiet smiles on their lips.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

* * *

 

 

John was rudely awakened the following morning by a sharp rapping and the clearing of a throat. As his eyes fluttered open, the first thing he registered was a mass of dark curls under his chin. He smiled sleepily before turning his gaze to the door. When he clocked Mycroft he shifted cautiously onto his back, careful not to wake Sherlock and wriggled up the bed in an attempt to appear less rumpled.

 

"Please, John. Don't worry." Mycroft said in low tones as he swept towards the side of his bed. He cast a worried glance at his brother.

 

"He's fine. Think of it as a post case-sleep." He placed a gentle hand into the riot of hair near his waist and smiled brightly as Sherlock snuffled and curled into his hip. "He'll be out cold for another few hours I should think."

 

Mycroft smiled as he pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down, nodding towards the younger Holmes. "He used to do that as a child - stay awake for days until he dropped."

 

"That does _not_ surprise me in the least."

 

Mycroft smirked before his expression became serious again. "How are you feeling?" He asked softly.

 

John shrugged. "Not too bad. Should be on solid food soon and then it's just... you know, the standardised tests." He cleared his throat. "I'm really looking forward to finally going home."

 

Mycroft regarded him silently for a moment, obviously debating his next words. He crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands on his knee before opening his mouth to speak.

 

"It goes without saying, John, but... thank you for preventing Sherlock from..." He swallowed and stopped, looking incredibly uncomfortable. John knew what he wanted to say and though he was certain that Sherlock would make him squirm he decided to spare Mycroft the embarrassment.

 

"Mycroft, it's fine. I wouldn't let anyone go through what I did, but I'm _so_ glad that Sherlock was spared from it, alright? I'd do it again in the blink of an eye, if it meant protecting him, so... don't mention it, ok?" John gave him a pleading look, willing him to understand that he didn't need to make the point on this. It was something John would do time and again without hesitation.

 

Mycroft searched his face and finally relaxed with a sharp nod. "Understood." He murmured, but John got the impression that Mycroft felt in his debt. He wasn't sure whether or not enjoyed that thought. "I heard through the grapevine that you've gone ahead and booked yourself in with the therapist."

 

John glanced at Sherlock and was reassured to find him still sleeping peacefully. "I haven't told Sherlock yet because he's struggling himself, but yes. Next month."

 

"You've done the right thing, John."

 

The doctor sighed and turned his gaze back to Mycroft. "You should know that he's talking to people - not _professional_ people, but his friends. I would feel better about him seeing a therapist, but I know that's a lost cause." John shrugged, "He's doing better and it's good to see him sleeping."

 

"He was much the same after he returned, you know. He--"

 

"I appreciate that you're trying to put my mind at ease, Mycroft, I really do, but... when he's ready, he'll tell me. I'd rather hear it from him."

 

The elder Holmes nodded. "I should go. There's a coup in... well. I should go." He stood and brushed imaginary lint from his three-piece suit and grasping his ever-present umbrella. "Let Sherlock know that I dropped by."

 

"I will."

 

His shining, designer shoes clicked against the linoleum as he walked back to the door. "Good day, doctor."

 

"See you later, Mycroft."

 

***

 

It took three hours for Sherlock to begin to stir. He made another snuffle and John ran the hand not holding his book through silky tresses. He hummed and opened mercurial eyes, staring at John's hip for a few confused moments before tilting his head up to meet John's gaze.

 

"Hello, you." John murmured, scratching at the base of Sherlock's skull, grinning widely as he hummed again.

 

"Hello." _Christ_ , his voice was sub-sonic so soon after sleep. "What time is it?"

 

"Not sure. Late morning, early afternoon."

 

"Hmm."

 

"Any plans for today?"

 

Sherlock pressed his face back into John's hip and shook his head. "Nope. Staying here is fine." He sighed and threw a cautious are over John's legs. "What did Mycroft want?"

 

John shrugged and continued his ministrations to Sherlock's scalp, lips twitching every time the detective made an appreciative noise. "To see how we were doing I think. Well... in his Mycroftian way."

 

"Mycroftian?"

 

"I'm a writer, it's artistic licence." John murmured, he traced the shell of Sherlock's ear distractedly. "Sherlock?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"I made an appointment with the therapist."

 

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds. "I know."

 

"How?"

 

"Your phone wasn't in the same place as it had been before I left for Baker Street. I hypothesised that you had either called Lestrade to organise another 'man-to-man with me', unlikely as I have been feeling better and have shown no outward signs of needing to talk, besides which, I know you would have suggested I talk to him rather than the other way around. Or you called the therapist as I had left you with the details that day. However, I supposed you could have phoned Harry to let her know that you were in the hospital." It all came out rather rushed and John got the impression that Sherlock felt hed be angry with him for deducing it, but honestly he was awed, as always.

 

He understood that to most people it would seem, almost, a lack of privacy, but in the time that he'd known Sherlock, he had grown to understand that the man couldn't help it. It was the way in which he had conditioned his brain to work and as a result he would take in the most immaterial of facts. The reality was that Sherlock only ever shared deductions about John to John if he felt that feigning ignorance would cause misunderstandings. For that, John couldn't fault him.

 

"Fuck." He said. "Ok. One: brilliant." He smiled as Sherlock looked up at him from his place by his hip and tousled his hair a little "Two: I hadn't even thought about calling Harry. I'm not really sure if I want to. I don't want to answer all the questions she's bound to ask, nor be faced with her coming into the hospital drunk."

 

Sherlock shrugged, "Then don't call her. You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

 

It was such a generalised thing to say, but John sensed there was more to that statement. A kind of line drawn in the sand by Sherlock, highlighting his human connection despite his best efforts to conceal it.

 

John smiled down at him fondly. Instead of asking whether there was hidden meaning in Sherlock's words, he simply said: "Only a week to go."

 

"Thank _goodness_."


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

* * *

 

 

It was three days after Molly's visit before John was cleared to try solid foods. He kept his fingers crossed on keeping it down, otherwise he would be looking at more hospital time. He was started easily digested food and he felt a small amount victory after the first helping stayed down. He felt better than he had in _days_ and he asked Sherlock to let Molly and Greg know that they could start bringing food in for him, provided it would be gentle on his stomach.

 

"It's good to see you eating again." Sherlock murmured.

 

"Mmm. Tables have turned, huh? Usually it's me who's saying that."

 

"Shut up." He replies without venom as he pulled out his mobile and affected a casual air. "Lestrade asked: What does he have in mind?"

 

John shrugged, "I don't know. Anything gentle and easily digestible. Fruit. I want fruit."

 

"Alright, I'll make a list of the fruit you like and we can go from there." He said as he began to type out a list to send to Greg.

 

"Thank you."

 

"Not a problem." Sliding his mobile back into his pocket, he smiled at John.

 

"What?"

 

"Five days."

 

"I know, thank God." John rubbed a hand over his face. "They want to try and get me doing exercises today."

 

"Oh?"

 

"Yeah." John grinned and reach to squeeze Sherlock's hand. "As soon as I can handle stairs, we should be good to leave."

 

"What about..." He cleared his throat, "What about bowel movements?"

 

John huffed a laugh. "The hope is that that'll be the easy part, but yes, that too. No point in us being modest about it, Sherlock. I'm probably going to be needing inordinate amounts of help just doing simple things when we get home, so don't get squeamish on me now."

 

"I'm not _squeamish_!" Sherlock cried indignantly, blushing as he realised just how loud he'd been.

 

"Well, good. Now, help me up, I need to piss."

 

***

 

Jack, the young physiotherapist, was a cheery young man who appeared to understand and handle Sherlock as well as Greg.

 

"Alright, then, Doctor Watson." He said, clapping his hands together. "We're just going to do a few, simple exercises today to get you warmed up."

 

Jack pulled a black, heavy plastic stepping-block into the centre f the room and stood back.

 

"All I want you to do is step up and step down three times. I'll analyse how you're doing and we can decide whether you want and can continue for a bit longer."

 

John nodded and rolled his eyes as Sherlock opened his mouth.

 

"How is this anything like using stairs?" He asked with a frown, "They're not nearly as steep as the ones at home."

 

Jack grinned at John and quirked an eyebrow. "He always like this?"

 

"Afraid so." John shrugged.

 

"Well, Mr. Holmes. This is an adjustable stepping block, if you give me the dimensions of the steps you have at home, I can alter it accordingly and put your mind at ease."

 

Sherlock gave Jack a surprised look and nodded silently.

 

"You've broken him." John accused with a smile, "He should have those dimensions memorised - in fact I know he does, but you've broken his hard drive."

 

Sherlock glared and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

"Hard drive?" The physio asked.

 

"Yeah. Mind like a computer, this one." He smiled gently at the detective and ran a hand through inky curls. "Tell him the dimensions now and we can start with the right height today." He murmured, grinning as Sherlock's frown disappeared.

 

"Eight inches in height. Nine in width." He muttered with a sniff of derision. John rolled his eyes, but was surprised to see the physiotherapist grinning as he moved to adjust the stepping block.

 

"You'll remember my instructions on what exercises your boyfriend should be doing every day then, Mr. Holmes." Jack grinned as he straightened and waved John to the step-block.

 

John giggled, his cheeks turning pink and he grinned widely as Sherlock avoided Jack's gaze as he blushed furiously.

 

"I never forget anything involving John." He grumbled.

 

"Good." Jack replied as John came to stand at the step. "Now, Doctor Watson, Very easy, this and I can see that you're doing well with your walking."

 

"Don't have much choice once they take you off a catheter."

 

Jack laughed. "No, I suppose not. Mr. Holmes, come and stand here," he pointed to a space beside the step, "you're going to be there to offer support, should Doctor Watson want it."

 

Sherlock nodded and did as he was told, causing John to let out a surprised laugh.

 

"Shut up, John." Sherlock growled without malice, a smile twitching at his lips.

 

"Alright, Doctor Watson, when you're ready, three steps up and down."

 

With a determined nod, John squared his shoulders to make the first step. He flinched as he place his left foot onto the step-block as his still-not-fully-healed wounds pulled. He sucked in a hissing breath and pushed up onto the block fully before he stepped back down.

 

He took a quivering breath and did it again and again. On the third step, he flinched a little harder, but bravely soldiered through the exercise to the end.

 

"Alright?" Sherlock asked, looking pale as he rested a gentle hand to John's back.

 

"Not really." John bit out.

 

Jack stood still for a couple of moments before he spoke. "I'm not comfortable with you doing any more steps today, but tomorrow we'll try again. For the rest of the day, I want you to keep walking about, start with a ten minute walk and a half hour rest, hopefully it'll loosen your muscles enough that it won't be quite as painful tomorrow, alright?"

 

John nodded and leaned back into Sherlock's touch, grinning as the detective pressed a kiss to his hairline.

 

"Right, then. I'll leave you two alone, but I expect you to do the walking - I'll know if you don't." Jack quickly and efficiently took the tools of his trade with him and left the room.

 

John turned in Sherlock's arms.

 

"I didn't realise this was going to be so hard." He admitted.

 

"You'll do it, John. I know you will."

 

John smiled, "I don't know how you have that much faith in me, but thanks."

 

Sherlock kissed his forehead, "Anytime."


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

* * *

 

 

"That's it, Doctor Watson."

 

His legs shook, but the pain from the first couple of times on the stepping block was muted, almost non-existent. Now, he was certain the strain came from weeks of lying in bed.

 

"One more, John, and you've walked up to the flat." Sherlock murmured, a shadowy presence in his peripheral, comforting.

 

The transition from three to seventeen steps had been swift, but they had worked tirelessly on making sure John's injuries were healed enough to handle it. Of course, Doctor Marques wouldn't have cleared him for this, if he'd thought it detrimental to John's health. The ex-soldier frowned as he pushed through the last step. He was convinced that the residual pain he was experiencing was actually psychosomatic and that terrified him.

 

If it was just in his head, there was a longer road ahead than he had previously thought. _Good thing I'm actively seeking help_.

 

He stepped down and grinned.

 

"Seventeen." He huffed, breath short from the strain.

 

Sherlock's eyes sparkled with warm affection and, John thought, if he didn't think the doctor would feel molly-coddled by the gesture would have given him a congratulatory hug.

 

John had been pleasantly surprised by Sherlock's open and honest affections. There was nothing calculated in the way he reacted to John, nor in how he acted towards him. There was a purity in the way he touched John, a hesitancy that would have seemed to be out of consideration for what had happened to the doctor if there wasn't a kind of wonder in Sherlock's eyes every time he held John in his hands.

 

"Alright, then." Jack said, stepping forward and pulling the stepping block away. "Let's see you stretch out and you're done."

 

John obliged, knowing that Sherlock was carefully taking stock of every movement and making mental notes on how the stretches could be improved at home. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the detective as he started on his hamstrings. He'd have to be blind to not notice the simmering, appreciative heat in Sherlock's eyes as he regarded John's legs.

 

"Enjoying the view?" He grinned, chuckling as Sherlock's eyes snapped up to meet his, a blush staining his cheeks.

 

"I-I wasn't... I didn't..." He trailed off, looking heartbreakingly uncertain and John straightened, smiling sadly at him.

 

"I was joking."

 

Sherlock nodded, but John could feel the self-loathing rolling off him in waves. He quickly finished his stretches, ignoring Jack's disapproving look as he instead moved to comfort the detective.

 

"Hey." He murmured, meeting Sherlock's quick-silver gaze. "It's alright. I'm alright."

 

Sherlock's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know that. Logically, but..."

 

John grasped those violinist hands in his and pressed his brow to Sherlock's, "You're the one and _only_ person I don't mind touching me." He whispered, "I know that doesn't sound much like a compliment, but I _trust_ you not to hurt me and at the moment, that's pretty huge. What's more, I _know_ you never would and that means more to me than you can imagine. If... if I didn't have you," he exhaled shakily, "well... I'd be in a pretty bad place right now - a _very_ bad place."

 

"I'll always be here, John. I'm not going anywhere."

 

John smiled and gently kissed Sherlock's nose. "I know, and you're the only one keeping me sane, so don't feel ashamed for... for wanting me, just understand that it's a long road to go yet." He pulled back a little to grin at the detective. "But once we're there? _God_. It'll be _glorious_."

 

***

 

Officially it was only two more days to go, but John had yet to pass the last hospital release requirement. In layman's terms: pooping.

 

Frustratingly, every time John felt that he could and went to try, he was left humiliated and more aware of his healed injuries than he'd been in a week.

 

"Stop frowning."

 

"Hmm?" John grunted, turning the page of his book more viciously than was strictly necessary.

 

"Stop frowning. It'll happen when it happens, you're still on track to leave in two days, ergo you still have two days in which to have a satisfactory bowel movement. You've passed every other test."

 

"I know that, Sherlock, but... it's humiliating. And," he continued, folding his page over and placing his book to the side, "you may not realise it, but every time I leave the bathroom without, you know, your face falls. You want to go home, I know you do and I hate keeping you here."

 

Sherlock reached out and gently took John's hand in his. "I want to go home with you." John raised an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, I'm impatient to get there, but only because I know you don't want to be here any longer and that we can, now, manage everything at home."

 

"Not everything. I still have to come to a couple of physio sessions and then there's the therapy." He grimaced and Sherlock squeezed his hand.

 

"All in good time, John."

 

John smiled, "Thanks."

 

***

 

It finally happened at two A.M. the following morning. Sherlock was woken as John thumped his bag down onto the bed.

 

"We're going home." He said, grinning broadly, "I can't stay here another second longer."

 

Blearily, Sherlock smiled back, "Brilliant." He murmured before moving to help John pack the small bag. "Do you need to sign anything?"

 

"I've done my part, but you might need to sign a couple of papers to take responsibility of my care."

 

"Alright."

 

Packing done, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and rested his forehead against his sternum. The detective's arms encircled him and squeezed him gently.

 

"Take me home." The doctor whispered.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

* * *

 

The black car arrived at the hospital before either man had the chance to hail a cab and for once, John was grateful for the elder Holmes' meddling. Silently, he and Sherlock slid into the spacious back seat.

 

"I'm so glad to be going home." John sighed as he carefully strapped himself in and leaned into the plush, leather seat. "I know it's still a long road ahead, but..." He trailed off and shrugged.

 

"Did they prescribe you any morphine?"

 

"No." He yawned, "No. Any residual pain I should be able to manage with over-the-counter pain-killers."

 

Sherlock reach across the seats to grasp John's hand. The doctor smiled and rubbed his thumb against the back of Sherlock's hand.

 

"Alright." The detective nodded. "Is withdrawal likely?"

 

"Yes. But before actually leaving they had lowered the dose enough that it shouldn't be as hard as it could have been." He leaned across the space to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "A few weeks and I should be fine."

 

He felt Sherlock nod before gently kissing the top of his head. The detective lingered there, drawing in steadying breaths of John's scent - tainted as it was by the sterile stench of the hospital.

 

"You alright?" John asked, leaning more heavily into Sherlock's side.

 

Sherlock sighed. "I don't know."

 

"Hmm?"

 

"I just... I don't know. I'm happy that we're going home. I'm glad that you're... alright, all things considered. But I feel..." He sighed again and buried his face in John's hair, shrugging.

 

John considered the past few weeks and ventured, "Tired?" The detective shook his head. "Sad?" A pause, then a hesitant nod. "Overwhelmed?" A more vigorous nod. John smiled. "That's fine, Sherlock." He reached up and cupped his hand around the detective's neck. "It's all fine."

 

***

 

As the car pulled up at 221, John felt the sudden and quite unexpected urge to run away. He grasped Sherlock's hand tightly as he was helped out of the car. His knees were shaking.

 

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, his brow creased with concern.

 

"S-sorry." John stuttered, clearing his throat, "I don't... I don't know why."

 

Sherlock's frown deepened. "I asked Mrs. Hudson to go and see her sister for the week."

 

"What?"

 

"As soon as I knew you were coming home, I called her and asked her to stay at her sister's." As he spoke, he gently coaxed John closer to the steps of 221. "She was more than happy to leave when I explained that you would need some time to adjust. Mycroft, himself, came to pick her up as we were finishing the paperwork at the hospital."

 

Before he knows it, John is standing at the familiar black door with the genius turning his key in the lock. His knees threaten to give out even as he straightens his spine.

 

"Thank you." He murmured. "I didn't know... I thought it would be the easy part. Coming home."

 

Sherlock smiled softly at him as he removed first his Belstaff, then John's far inferior jacket.

 

"Coming home is the hardest part." He murmured, taking John's hand again and giving it a squeeze before letting go and gesturing for him to go ahead on the stairs.

 

John did it. He made it up the seventeen steps without fanfare, but as he stepped into the living room of 221B he was struck again with a need to get away. Before he could turn and sprint (hobble) back down the stairs, Sherlock was there. A warm presence at his back urging him forward into their shared space and into his chair.

 

"You've had far too much exercise today." The detective said. "Sit. I'll make tea."

 

"M'kay." John murmured, sinking gratefully into the familiar armchair and clenching his fingers into the arm-rests and relishing the grounding feeling of the material beneath his fingers. "What did you mean earlier?" He called into the kitchen.

 

"Hmm? What?"

 

"When you said, 'Coming home is the hardest part'?" He turned to stare at Sherlock over the back of his chair. "Was that how you felt?"

 

"Yes." He answered simply, his arms folded as he stared at his feet waiting for the kettle to boil. "I dreaded seeing you, seeing Mrs. Hudson... Lestrade." He shrugged, turning to pour boiling water into the cups and grabbing the (thankfully new) milk. "It was hard. How would you all react? Would you understand? Could you?"

 

John felt his features crumple in the face of Sherlock's stark honesty. "I'm so sorry." He whispered hoarsely.

 

Sherlock glanced up sharply and strode into the lounge, reaching for John as he circled the armchair.

 

"No." He whispered back, arms encircling the doctor and grounding him. "That was how it had to be, and it's in the past. It's fine, John." He ran careful fingers through silver-blond strands. "It's all fine." He rubbed his hand against John's back in firm circles.

 

John shook his head, "It's not, Sherlock. I should have listened. I should have..." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. "I'm sorry."

 

"Shh. It's ok. We're ok."

 

After taking a few fortifying breaths imbued with Sherlock's unique scent, he pulled away, scrubbing at his face.

 

"Thank you, Sherlock. Sorry. Overwhelmed."

 

Sherlock smiled, pressing a fleeting kiss to John's mouth before straightening.

 

"Tea?"

 

"Please."

 

John fell silent for a few seconds as he listened to Sherlock clinking around in the kitchen. As Sherlock returned, sitting across from John and daintily sipping his tea, John spoke.

 

"It's good to be home."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a late update guys! It's been hectic. I've just finished my second year of Uni - and on top of that I'm now organising my wedding :O I will try to update semi regularly for the next couple of months, so bear with me. Don't forget to comment!


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Chapter Twenty-One**

* * *

 

 

It _was_ good to be home. After his initial, somewhat frightening, adverse reaction to the flat, John settled quickly. It was four in the morning, but neither man felt particularly tired and they relished the gentle domesticity of sitting in their chairs with the television turned low.

 

John straightened his legs and rested his feet beside Sherlock's thigh with a sigh.

 

"Alright?" Sherlock asked, flicking his gaze up to John's over his laptop.

 

"Mmmm. Happy to be home."

 

Sherlock smiled, returning his attention to his laptop. "Good."

 

"Anything good?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"On the site? I assume you're checking the blogs."

 

"I am. Nothing higher than a four so far."

 

"Oh?"

 

"Nope. Wouldn't matter anyway. Until you're better, I'm not taking any cases... Well... Nothing lower than a nine."

 

"Sherlock." It was a warning tone.

 

"Oh, I won't be hovering around you, I promise." He shut the laptop, placing it on the table as he stood to make more tea. "I won't be conducting any of the more... _distressing_ experiments in the flat. I've spoken to Mrs. Hudson and she's agreed to allow me a few months lease on 221C. It'll mean I'm close, but far enough away that you neither feel smothered nor worry - needlessly I might add - that I'm going to get bored." He smiled a rueful smile as he flicked on the kettle.

 

John stood, mindful of his lingering hurts and went into the kitchen to stand beside the madman.

 

He bumped his shoulder with Sherlock's. "Thanks." He murmured after a moment.

 

Sherlock smile widened and he wrapped an arm around John as they both waited for the water to boil. He kissed the top of the doctor's head. "Anytime."

 

It was quiet. John liked the quiet times in this flat, with their combined methodical mess and their mutual regard for one another. Of course that regard had deepened considerably in the past month-or-so and John was willing to pray to any deity to allow them to continue to strengthen this fledgling bond.

 

It was nice. More than nice. It was right.

 

Like it was something that the two of them had been hurtling towards since that first fated meeting.

 

"Mmm." John sighed, leaning into Sherlock's side. Sherlock's arm tightened briefly and he used his other hand to pour the boiling water over the tea-bags.

 

"Tired?" He asked.

 

"Mm-no. Happy. I feel so grateful to be out of that place. Don't get me wrong, as a former trauma surgeon, I appreciate hospitals but being there..." He shivered. "Well. Its true what they say about doctors. We really do make the worst patients."

 

Sherlock grinned, "Ah! But they have never had the pleasure of treating _me_ , so of course they'd think you were awful, John. Not enough data."

 

"Shut it, you git." He smiled up at Sherlock, no venom on his words. He glanced at the clock. 5am. "Right. Last cuppa, then I'm going to bed. I should be resting, God knows what the next few weeks are going to be like so you should probably do the same, ok?"

 

Sherlock nodded as they both moved back into the lounge and, rather than taking their respective chairs, sat down on the sofa side-by-side. They watched the early morning news, then retired to their own rooms in an unspoken agreement after a gentle kiss in the hallway.

 

***

 

He couldn't sleep. He had been lying in his bed for over an hour - his _own_ bed after so, _so_ long - and he just couldn't God-damn _sleep_. The sun was rising, what little of it there was on such an overcast day.

 

It wasn't logical, but he didn't feel safe.

 

Every shadow looked as though it were reaching for him, intent on... _no_.

 

It didn't make sense. None of what had happened to him happened in this room. _That_ room didn't even remotely resemble this one.

 

But shadows still kept reaching. His heart kept stuttering.

 

In the end, he gingerly walked back downstairs and paced into the kitchen to make a mug of cocoa in the hope that it would cam his frazzled nerves.

 

He was shaking and he was sweating.

 

_Is this withdrawal?_

 

A soft noise from behind him, made him flinch before he could register it as Sherlock's bare feet against the linoleum. _God_ , and even his feet were beautiful.

 

"John?" Sleep-scratchy.

 

John felt suddenly guilty. He knew Sherlock hadn't slept much in the time he'd been in the hospital.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"You're not." Sherlock approached him carefully and slipped deft hands around his waist. "Tell me." He murmured into John's hair.

 

John leaned back, resting his hand on top of the silk-clad arms around his midriff as though it was the only thing keeping him afloat. Perhaps it was.

 

He took a deep breath, exhaled noisily. "The shadows." He swallowed. "It's not logical, but the shadows in my room keep... they keep coming for me."

 

Sherlock hesitated before nodding understandingly. "After..." he cleared his throat, "after Serbia, whilst staying at Mycroft's, I couldn't disassociate what had happened there and the room I was staying in."

 

"You didn't come back to Baker Street immediately after you came back?"

 

He felt Sherlock shrug. "I couldn't."

 

"Why?"

 

A pause. "I wasn't ready. It was only a few days, but I just wasn't ready."

 

John nodded. "Cocoa?"

 

Sherlock shook his head and gently turned the doctor around so that they faced one another. Inquisitive mercurial eyes met deep blue.

 

"I have a suggestion." Sherlock murmured, suddenly. "I don't know whether or not it would be beneficial to you, but sleep with me."

 

John's brows shot into his hairline.

 

Sherlock blushed, " _No_ , no. I mean. Uhm. Share my bed? Use my bed? Either way."

 

John considered this. "And you'll stay there, too?"

 

"Only if you want me too." He stressed.

 

"Yes." John nodded. "Alright, yes. I think that could help. Not being alone." he grasped Sherlock's hand and pressed a kiss into the knuckles. "Come on, then, you brilliant madman."

 

Sherlock smiled and tugged John in the direction of his room. He paused at the door.

 

"This is the first time I've shared this room with anyone." He confessed.

 

"Thank you for sharing it with me." John whispered and Sherlock gently dragged him more completely into the room.

 

"I'll share the rest of my life with you."

 

"You'd better. Stuck with me now I'm afraid." John yawned, suddenly overcome with exhaustion as he slipped into the expensive covers.

 

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

 

Quietly, the detective slipped into the opposite side of the bed and lay on his back. His frame, while not explicitly tense, radiated anxiety. John rolled to face him and took the hand farthest from him, reaching across Sherlock's torso as he did.

 

"I won't break." He whispered into the dark, before rolling over and bringing Sherlock's arm around him. "It frightens me, but I won't break."

 

Sherlock pressed his nose to John's nape.

 

"I might." He whispered back.

 

"Then I'll just have to put you together."

 

The arm around his waist squeezed him tenderly and then relaxed. Sherlock's long legs tangled with his shorter ones and John felt the veil of sleep sweep through him feeling safer than he had in ages.

 

To his chagrin, he drifted off to the feeling of hot tears against the back of his neck.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

* * *

 

 

John woke slowly. He was surprised at that. He had expected be suddenly torn from sleep in the nefarious grasp of a nightmare. Sherlock's arm was still slung across his waist and the man radiated sleepy-warmth. John turned carefully.

 

In sleep, Sherlock looked impossibly young. Gently, John ran his finger down the detective's nose, smiling as Sherlock snuffled and buried his head in the bedding. The arm around the doctor's waist tightened slightly and he ran his fingers through inky curls.

 

"Morning." Sherlock croaked.

 

"Hey." John murmured back, grinning as Sherlock curled into him and pressed his nose against his collarbone. "How did you sleep?"

 

"Better than I expected to." Sherlock admitted and John suddenly recalled the tears against his neck.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Hmm...?"

 

"Are you alright? Last night..." He trailed off, not sure how to proceed.

 

Sherlock moved to look John in the face before snuggling back into the doctor's chest. "This is... _difficult_ for me. The things I feel for you are confusing."

 

"Confusing?" John frowned.

 

"Yes. I have never, in all my life, felt this way about a person. It's... it's like the exhilaration of a case solved, like the way time stops when a criminal threatens our lives or the pleasure in a worthwhile experiment. It's just... directed at you and right now, well. It's so complicated."

 

John nodded gently and ran his hand up and down Sherlock's arm. "We'll get through this." He whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of the detective's head. "We always do."

 

"I know. It's just so unfair." Sherlock choked, wrapping an arm around John. "With everything that came before, don't we deserve an easy time of it now? I keep thinking back to the night that--" he swallowed shakily, "that _night_ , and how you looked as you thought about _finally_ kissing me and how much easier it could be."

 

John was silent for long enough that Sherlock tensed and asked, "Not good?"

 

The doctor shook his head, "No, no. It's... it's exactly what I was thinking the day you kissed me. Well, the day _we kissed_ , I suppose. It might sounds selfish to someone else, but I know exactly what you mean." John sighed and brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair again. "We've got through... I was going to say worse, but maybe that's not true. If anyone can do it, Sherlock, we can." Sherlock nodded, "And hey, I will _always_ be here to put you back together."

 

"And I, you." Sherlock murmured, burrowing deeper still. He couldn't get close enough.

 

"Come on, you." John said, "We should get up."

 

"Don't want to."

 

The doctor chuckled at the petulant tone. "Well, I need to eat something that isn't hospital food."

 

Sherlock heaved a put upon sigh and launched himself from the bed with grin. John couldn't suppress a flinch and the detective smile fell as his eyes turned sad. Slowly, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to John's mouth.

 

"Sorry." He murmured, nudging their noses together. "I'll go get some breakfast." He glanced at the bedside clock. "Lunch." He corrected, with a wry smile.

 

"Alright."

 

***

 

The day passed quietly, but Sherlock was thankful for it. He found himself consistently gravitating towards John. He tried to curb the reaction, worried that John might assume he was hovering, but it was difficult. There was a deep seated need to have him in view at all times and he wondered if this was how the doctor had felt after Sherlock's return, once he had worked through his anger.  

 

Striding out of the kitchen, he stopped and stared at John for a moment. He was sat in his armchair reading through the morning newspaper and the light from the window caught in the golden strands of his hair and to Sherlock, he was the most perfectly-imperfect human being.

 

"Stop staring."

 

Sherlock felt his cheeks pink and ducked back into the kitchen.

 

"Oh, no you don't." John huffed on a laugh as he heaved himself out of his chair. "Don't run away." He entered the kitchen and opened his arms, "Come here, you mad genius."

 

Sheepishly, the detective stepped into the circle of John's embrace.

 

"There you go." John murmured, carding gentle fingers through dark locks. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm so glad you're here right now." Sherlock's fingers reached out to grip John's hips. "If I'm being honest, I don't feel entirely safe at the moment, and you being here is helping so much more that you know. I know you're trying to make sure I don't, uhm, feel claustrophobic, but until I tell you otherwise, you hovering over me feels pretty fucking good. Makes me feel safe, alright? I'm probably not making any sense."

 

Sherlock shook his head, "It's fine." He sighed, curling into John. "It's all fine."

 

They stood like that, shrouded in one another's arms, until John's legs began to tremble with fatigue and he huffed an annoyed noise.

 

"Not up to fighting fit just yet." He muttered, squeezing Sherlock tightly for a moment before stepping back and making his way to the kitchen table to sit heavily on one of the chairs. "What are you working on?" He gestured towards the microscope.

 

"How various detergents affect epithelial cells." His lips quirked, "Might have to re-do that slide, mind. Tea?"

 

"Mmm, please."

 

Sherlock swept over to the kettle, pressing a gentle kiss to John's head as he passed, before grabbing two mugs.

 

Life at Baker Street was far from perfect and there was the ever-looming knowledge of John's appointment with a therapist, but for now, 221B's tenants were determined to find a new and better equilibrium.

 

As Sherlock observed John flicking through his notes on epithelials, he felt a tug at his chest. _I love you_. He thought desperately. _I love you_.

 

He handed John his tea, heat blooming in his cheeks at the blinding smile he received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys and dolls, manic at my end at the moment. Bear with me as I really wanna finish this, thanks for your patience :) Don't forget to comment!


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